Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue: The Divergence – A Choice Never Spoken

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The day after Sung Jinwoo killed Antares, the world stood still.

I remember the eerie calm that followed. It wasn’t relief, not really. It was more like a collective pause, as if humanity was too afraid to exhale, too afraid to jinx the fact that we’d survived the apocalypse.

News stations didn’t know what to do with themselves.

They just kept replaying the footage—Oppa, in full Shadow Monarch regalia, clashing with a dragon that could have reduced continents to ash. Over and over, they showed him descending from the sky, shadows billowing around him like a living cloak. His violet eyes gleamed with a deadly focus that sent chills down spines.

Terrifying.

Beautiful.

That’s the only way I can describe it. Beautiful and terrifying.

I wasn’t there in person, of course. Like the rest of the world, I watched through a screen, surrounded by my classmates in stunned silence. I don’t even think anyone breathed until it was over.

Antares—the Dragon King, the Monarch of Destruction—was gone. Defeated.

We thought it was over.

But it wasn’t.

.

.

So, hi. My name is Sung Jinah.

Yes, that Sung Jinah. The amazing, brilliant, effortlessly hilarious girl who’s basically rocking this thing called life.

Totally awesome. Perfectly normal

And nope, I don’t have a weird brother. Not a single weird bone in my perfectly balanced family.

Sung Jinwoo?

Oh, you’ve heard of him?

Yeah… that Sung Jinwoo. The Shadow Monarch. Slayer of the Monarch of Destruction. Earth’s Savior.

Yada. Yada. Yada.

The world’s knight in shadowy armor.

But you know what? Let’s cut through the epic myths for a sec.

To me, he's just Oppa.

You know, the guy who forgets to take out the trash and leaves half-eaten ramen bowls on the table. The one who’s always been annoyingly selfless to the point of absurdity.

And don’t get me wrong—he’s done the big, flashy, world-saving stuff.

Apocalypse dragons.

Cities saved.

But what’s always stuck with me? The quiet things.

Like how he never thinks he deserves thanks. How he just… does what needs to be done.

No speeches. No grand moments. Just action.

Here’s what you need to know about Oppa. He doesn’t talk about his choices. He’s always been the type to carry his burdens in silence, to protect people without ever asking for recognition. So it wasn’t until much later—weeks after the battle, when I started piecing things together—that I realized just how much he’d chosen to let us remember.

Because Oppa had another option.

So when I found out about the Cup of Reincarnation—time travel, timeline reset, all that sci-fi jazz—I wasn’t surprised.

Reset time by ten years. Stop the Monarchs before they could hurt anyone. Erase every scar of war from the planet.

And erase himself from everyone’s memory.

Because why not? It’s the ultimate Sung Jinwoo move. The kind that makes you get infuriated and want to shake him like one of Mom's pepper pots.

He’d have erased the scars from Jeju Island, from Tokyo, from every country that bled to keep the gates from overwhelming us. No one would’ve remembered what he gave up.

In another world, maybe he took it. Maybe he erased everything, rewrote the story so that the gates never consumed our lives. Gave us peace at the cost of himself.

Maybe in that version, I’m still in high school, still fawning over K-pop idols and dramas, with no idea that monsters exist.

No monsters. No gates. No memories of all he sacrificed.

Maybe Mom never woke up to find her son dragging himself home from battle, bruised and battered.

Maybe I never sat through math class, watching him fight skyscraper-sized monsters live on live TV.

Maybe people never spoke his name with trembling reverence.

But guess what?

Even that wasn’t enough.

Because here’s the thing: Solo Leveling doesn’t end with Antares.

Oh no, my dear reader.

Bigger. Badder. Cosmic horrors were waiting.

Interdimensional gods.

The Itarim.

And Oppa?

He kept fighting. Alone.

No fame. No glory.

He even had to leave his family behind—including his son—to keep Earth safe from Ragnarok.

Yeah, I know. It’s tragic as hell.

But that’s just who he is. He doesn’t want us carrying the weight of his war.

Except…

I think that’s wrong.

Oppa isn’t a god.

He’s powerful enough to make people think he is, sure. But deep down? He’s just human.

And resetting time—that’s playing god. It’s taking away the world’s agency, our right to remember, to grow, to fight alongside him.

In this timeline, he made a different choice.

.

Our story is one where Sung Jinwoo didn’t hit the reset button.

And because of that, the world remembers. We remember Jeju Island, when South Korea almost fell to a horde of giant ants. We remember the Giants in Japan, and all the horrors as many hunters and civilians fell, and the Monarch War that nearly tore the sky apart.

We remember that one man stood between us and annihilation.

And that’s… complicated.

.

It’s been months since the final battle with Antares. In some ways, life looks normal again. The gates are still opening, but hunters are stabilizing them—nothing new there. People go to work, students cram for exams, and the news cycles have shifted to other disasters.

But there’s something in the air. A creeping sense of awe. Fear. And something bigger waiting on the edges of reality.

Most people don’t know how to talk about it. Some try to rationalize it, treating Oppa like he’s a celebrity instead of a goddamn savior. Others go the opposite route, turning him into this untouchable figure—a myth in the making.

And me? I’m somewhere in between.

It’s surreal, you know? Growing up with Sung Jinwoo, my awkward, ramyeon-loving, overprotective brother, only to watch him become… this. The Shadow Monarch. The world's guardian.The man whose every action shapes our survival.

Now that he’s chosen to stay in this timeline, to keep carrying the burden of the world… we all have to live with what that means.

For better or worse, this isn’t the kind of story where the hero fades into the background.

This is the story of what comes next.

Of how Sung Jinwoo, who never once asked for power or recognition, became the center of everything.

And how the rest of us—including me, Sung Jinah—learned to carry the weight alongside him.

.

It starts with small things. Government summons, international interviews, world leaders quietly scrambling to understand the scope of what Oppa has done. But even they don’t know the full picture yet.

At first, it’s almost funny—watching them try to court him with diplomacy, like Oppa isn’t the same guy who practically shadow teleports away whenever someone shoves a microphone in his face. But it doesn’t stay funny for long.

Because even with Antares gone, the threats don’t stop.

Bigger monsters. Smarter ones. Creatures that act like scouts, probing Earth’s defenses, testing how strong we are.

And Oppa is… everywhere. He’s exhausting himself, teleporting between countries, fighting on the frontlines like it’s his job alone to protect us all.

It doesn’t make sense at first. I don’t understand why he keeps pushing himself so hard, why he’s not letting his shadows or the other S-ranks handle more of the load.

But I think—deep down—I already know the answer.

Oppa doesn’t think we’re ready.

And if something worse than Antares is coming…

He’s going to make damn sure that when it arrives, we will be.

.

He’s sending a message.

Not to us.

To them.

The entities watching from the void beyond the gates.

He’s telling them that Earth is not defenseless, that Sung Jinwoo is still here.

You’d think we’d be in full-blown apocalyptic panic mode, right? I mean, hello, the creator of the universe—the Absolute Being—is gone, and Earth is now prime real estate for every cosmic horror out there.

But no.

The world hasn’t descended into chaos. It’s… eerily calm, like everyone collectively decided, "Oh, well. This is fine."

Even the critics—the ones who used to drag Oppa’s name through the mud—have gone suspiciously silent. Because what are you going to say? That he’s doing too much to protect us? That he shouldn’t have crushed Antares in a battle that shook the heavens?

Because really, what’s left to criticize?

Yeah.

Didn’t think so.

We all know who’s holding the line.

.

Here’s the paradox of Sung Jinwoo:

The world sees him as this tragic figure. They think he’s some doomed hero, crushed under the weight of saving humanity. They paint him as Atlas, sky on his back, breaking slowly under the weight of impossible expectations.

But that’s not Oppa. Not even close.

That analogy? It’s trash.

.

Atlas didn’t have a choice. He staggered under a punishment he didn’t ask for, groaning with every step. Oppa? He grabbed the weight himself—dragons, dungeons, apocalypse and all—threw it over his shoulders and said, Bring it. No groaning. No hesitation. No pity-party. He dares anyone—gods, monsters, fate itself—to try and take it from him. Good luck with that.

.

I grew up with Sung Jinwoo practically raising me. And let me tell you: he’s not some tragic, self-sacrificing mess. He’s practical. Brutally pragmatic. And always prepared. He doesn’t let the weight crush him because he’s too busy moving forward, one grind at a time. He’s the man who solo-levels. Who strategizes. Who builds his strength quietly in the shadows so that when disaster shows up, he’s already ten steps ahead and ready to wreck whatever comes next.

The world looks at him and sees a myth. A legend. But I see him in his old pajamas, slurping ramen on the couch, asking me how my day was.

The guy who overpacks umbrellas “just in case.” The guy who once worked himself half to death in E-rank dungeons just to keep me in school. The guy who doesn’t stop—because stopping isn’t in his vocabulary.

So no, Oppa isn’t Atlas.

He’s Sung Jinwoo.

And that’s a hell of a lot scarier.

They’re out there, watching. Monsters, gods, whatever you want to call them.

And they have no idea what they’re about to face.

Because we remember. We’ve seen Oppa’s shadows, his armies, his power. We know what he’s capable of.

And if those cosmic horrors think they’re going to waltz in and claim Earth, they’re in for a rude awakening.

So here’s a little advice to any interdimensional entities who might be listening:

Run.

Because the man who defied fate, death, and destruction itself is waiting for you.

And he’s not worried.

Chapter Text

The Day After Sung Jinwoo Killed Antares, The World Froze

For a moment, the whole planet collectively forgot how to function. The Dragon Monarch was gone. The apocalypse was averted. We were alive. Hooray.

But instead of popping confetti and throwing parades, everyone just stood around in awkward silence, waiting for… something.

You see, people had thoughts. Big, anxious thoughts.

“What now?”

.

I mean, what do you even do when a man who can turn dragons into barbeque skewers holds more power than every government on Earth? Rumors went wild. Maybe he’d demand riches. A throne. Global worship. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if some countries had “Congratulations, We Surrender” paperwork ready to go.

But no. Not Sung Jinwoo. Oppa didn’t want any of that.

No, this man—this absolute lunatic—just… went back to work.

.

Like, what?

No speeches. No “We did it!” No let’s-take-a-break-before-the-next-monster-crisis. Nothing. Just business as usual. Shadow-teleport here. Slice through a demon army there. Like an overworked office worker with a never-ending deadline. Clock in. Clock out. Rinse and repeat. All that was missing was a coffee break and a stack of overdue paperwork.

Speaking of overdue paperwork, that’s where Woo Jinchul comes in—long-suffering president of the Korean Hunter Association, who probably stress-cries into his coffee every time Oppa casually triggers an international incident by saving a different continent. Poor guy. He’s the real hero, honestly.

.

Meanwhile, world leaders were having existential crises trying to figure out if they should build statues of him or bunker themselves underground. Social media couldn’t get enough, dissecting every blink and breath like it was sacred lore.

And me? I was just waiting for him to do something ridiculous—like, oh, I don’t know, summon a shadow soldier to move our couch. (Which, by the way, totally happened.)

Living with the Shadow Monarch (Or: Is This My Life Now?)

Let’s just be clear: living with the Shadow Monarch isn’t some awe-inspiring, mythical experience. It’s pure, unfiltered absurdity.

Case in point? Last week, Oppa summoned Igris—yes, that Igris, knight of nightmares—to move the couch. His reason?

“I didn’t want to hurt my back.”

.

…Excuse me?! The guy who threw hands with the literal Dragon King is worried about back pain?

I just stared as Igris silently hoisted the couch like it was a prop in a school play.

“Really, Oppa?” I deadpanned, waving a hand at the seven-foot-tall, armored terror now casually standing in our living room.

“I needed the TV angle adjusted,” he said, like that explained everything.

.

Right. Summon a shadow knight for optimal Netflix positioning. Totally reasonable.

The Aura Problem

Another thing people don’t get? Oppa has this vibe—like Death itself is politely waiting for tea. It’s not even his fault at this point. He could walk into a room and everyone would instinctively start updating their wills.

Mom found this out the hard way when she invited her mahjong group over for tea. The second Jinwoo strolled in, the atmosphere flatlined. Their cheerful gossip died faster than an E-rank hunter in a double dungeon.

“Oh… my,” one of the ladies whispered, clutching her pearls like she’d just seen the Grim Reaper order boba.

Mom sighed heavily. “Jinwoo, your aura.”

“What aura?” he blinked, looking genuinely confused.

.

I nearly drowned in my tea trying not to laugh. What aura? The man practically radiates "abandon all hope, ye who enter here" vibes. He might think that’s his neutral setting, but I’m telling you, he’d crash a kid’s birthday party just by walking near the cake.

Math Class? Nah, Let’s Watch My Brother Fight a Kaiju

Fast-forward to school. I was halfway through my slow, painful execution by integrals when someone burst into the room like they were fleeing the gates of hell.

“Turn on the news!” they shouted. “The Shadow Monarch is fighting a sea monster in the Indian Ocean!”

Cue mass hysteria.

Our math teacher—who once gave a kid detention for sneezing—abandoned her lesson plan like it owed her money. The screen blinked to life, and there he was: Oppa. Sung Jinwoo. The Shadow Monarch.

Standing on a tidal wave like some apocalyptic demigod, facing off against a kaiju-sized sea serpent. Its scales gleamed like steel, fangs bigger than buses snapping as it thrashed around like a giant toddler having a tantrum.

The class collectively forgot how to breathe. One second, the serpent lunged, sending an explosion of water sky-high. The next, Jinwoo teleported behind it, daggers glinting, shadows bellowing behind him like a royal cloak, and his army materializing like a scene straight out of Shadow Nightmares: The Movie.

One swing. Done.

“Holy crap,” someone whispered. “He’s insane.”

You don’t say.

Oppa: King of Anti-Climaxes

Here’s the thing about Oppa: the world sees him as this larger-than-life figure. And sure, he is insanely powerful. But they don’t know the awkward, deadpan weirdo I live with every day.

Take last week, for example. We were watching some hunters on TV debating strategies for large-scale dungeon breaks. They threw around terms like “mana efficiency” and “tactical optimization,” clearly trying to sound like big-brain experts.

“Oppa, what would you do?” I asked, half-joking.

He glanced at the screen, completely deadpan. “Kill everything in five minutes.”

I nearly spat out my drink. “You can’t just say stuff like that!”

“Why not? It’s true,” he replied with a shrug.

And the scary part? He wasn’t even being smug. Just… factual. I swear, sometimes this man doesn’t realize how absurd his life sounds to normal people.

By Evening, He’s Just… Making Ramyeon

Meanwhile, that same night, Jinwoo was in the kitchen stirring a pot of ramyeon like it was just another Wednesday.

“You’re kidding me,” I said, leaning on the counter. “You fought a sea monster today and now you’re... making ramyeon?”

He didn’t even look up. “I was hungry.”

“Oppa. The entire world is freaking out about you. They’re replaying your fight on loop like it’s the Super Bowl.”

“And?”

I stared at him, waiting for some kind of reaction. Nope. Just an egg cracking into the pot.

“Do you not see how insane this is?!”

He finally glanced at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one making it a big deal.”

Of course he’d say that. Dungeon break at noon. Ramen by seven.

The Meme-Lord Monarch

While Jinwoo was pretending the entire planet wasn’t obsessing over him, I checked my phone. Social media was, predictably, on fire.

“Watching the Shadow Monarch in action... chills. Absolute chills.”
“Is it just me, or does he look even stronger than last time?”
“Petition for Sung Jinwoo to take a vacation. #LetHunterSungJinwooRest.”

And then there were the memes. Oh, the memes. One of my favorites was a screenshot of Jinwoo mid-battle with the caption: This man killed a sea monster and went home to eat ramen.

.

I snorted. They had no idea how accurate that was.

Shadow Soldiers... In My Room?!

Oh, the shadows. Let’s talk about the shadows. You’d think they’d only show up during world-ending battles, right? Wrong. Apparently, Oppa has them stationed everywhere, including inside our apartment. For “protection.”

I found one in my room once—just standing silently in the corner like some paranormal bodyguard. I didn’t even notice it until I felt the intense I am watching you vibe halfway through my math homework.

.

“OPPA!” I stormed into the living room, arms crossed like an angry mom catching her kid with a bad report card. “Why is there a shadow soldier in my room?!”

“Oh.” He didn’t even look up from his ramen. “I told him to keep an eye on you.”

“Keep an eye on me?! What am I, a world leader?!”

He finally glanced at me, dead serious. “You’re my sister.”

Well, crap. What am I supposed to say to that? It’s sweet, I guess… in a creepy, overprotective, supernatural surveillance system kind of way. Still, having a giant shadow silently looming while I try to solve quadratic equations? Not exactly comforting.

The Time I Thought I Was Hallucinating

Then there was the day I caught Oppa having a full-on argument with Beru. Yes, Beru. The giant bug-looking shadow general who could probably send a whole army running for their lives just by clicking his mandibles.

“I’m telling you, Beru, you don’t need to patrol the apartment every night,” Jinwoo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was a regular Tuesday debate.

“But Your Majesty! Your safety—”

“I’m perfectly safe in my own home.”

Beru clicked anxiously. “I cannot rest if I do not ensure your protection, my king!”

I stood frozen in the doorway, mouth hanging open. Was this... real life? Was my brother, the Shadow Monarch, seriously having a domestic dispute with his shadow general about nighttime patrols?

“Uh, Oppa?” I finally blurted out. “What the hell is going on here?”

Jinwoo sighed like he’d already accepted how weird his life was. “Beru’s... overzealous.”

Beru let out a dramatic, buzzing sound of protest. “My loyalty demands that I remain vigilant!”

“See what I mean?” Oppa muttered, rubbing his temple like a tired manager dealing with an overcommitted employee.

I just stared at the two of them. “You know this isn’t normal, right?”

Jinwoo shrugged. “Define ‘normal.’”

Yeah. Nope. Therapy. I’m gonna need therapy for this.

Welcome to Absurdity Central

This is my life now. One minute I’m in school, watching my brother fight a kaiju on live TV. The next, he’s having intense security policy discussions with a giant shadow bug. Or asking me if we have leftover chicken. Every day is a bizarre mash-up of epic and absurd.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only sane person left in this household. But then Jinwoo will do something casually ridiculous—like summon a shadow knight to fix the couch—and all I can do is shake my head and laugh.

Because, honestly? This is just who he is. Sung Jinwoo: world savior, ramen thief, and full-time bringer of chaos.

And as much as it drives me crazy, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except maybe the whole shadow bodyguard in my room situation. That’s gotta go.

Chapter Text

The World Doesn't Get It

Let me ask you something:

If you saved the world, obliterated a dragon the size of a country, and became a literal god, what would you do next?

A: Lounge on a private island and demand cocktails on tap.
B: Accept global worship and start your cult of personality.
C: Take a freaking break for once in your life.

If you answered A, B, or C—congratulations! You’re sane.

But my brother? Sung Jinwoo? Shadow Monarch, commander of armies, destroyer of nightmares? He goes with Option D: none of the above. Because apparently, being normal is some kind of coping mechanism for him.

All of the sane and working braincells must have skipped him at birth and gone straight to me.

Shadow-teleport here. Annihilate a demon horde there. Monsters disintegrate, shadows bow, rinse and repeat. No fanfare, no slow-mo hero walk, no “You’re welcome, Earth.” Just endless dungeon breaks stacking up like unpaid bills.

You’d think someone who saved the world from total annihilation would take a break. At least one day off. Maybe two, if he’s feeling really wild. But not Oppa. Oh no. He treats wiping out eldritch monstrosities like running errands—one crisis at a time.

Meanwhile, poor Woo Jinchul is buried in diplomatic paperwork because every time Jinwoo cracks open a dungeon in another country, their governments collectively wet their pants. Someone give that man a medal and a vacation. Seriously.

And before you say —yeah, yeah, "Maybe Jinwoo has a tragic hero complex!" He doesn’t. Oppa’s problem isn’t that he’s self-sacrificing or some tortured martyr. His problem is that he thinks this is normal.

He’s out here living like he’s still a regular guy, trying to blend in like he’s not literally Hunter Sung Jinwoo, the Shadow Monarch. It’s honestly pathetic. Dude once tried to shop for groceries in a hoodie and sunglasses like that was going to stop anyone from recognizing him.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Not when half the planet saw him body-slam Antares from orbit like a meteor with a grudge.

And that’s the tragedy, right there. Because this is Oppa’s version of normal: one moment he’s battling continent-sized horrors, and the next he’s sitting on our couch in ratty pajamas, slurping instant ramyeon like any other twenty-something.

Somebody get this man a vacation. Seriously.

Stealth Mission: Grocery Shopping

It’s the little things that get to me the most.

Most people—after saving the world from total annihilation—would never lift a finger again. Maybe throw themselves a victory parade. I know I wouldn’t. You think I’d be standing in line at the bank or picking out groceries after slaying a continent-sized dragon? Absolutely not. I’d be on a yacht somewhere, sipping piña coladas, and wearing a “The World Owes Me” t-shirt. 

Ahem. Looking at you, Thomas Andre.

But Oppa? Nooo. Oh no. Sung Jinwoo—Shadow Monarch, destroyer of nightmares, savior of the entire planet—is out here pretending to be a regular dude. Like he didn’t just obliterate Antares in front of billions of people. He still does grocery shopping. Grocery. Shopping.

Take last week. I saw him pushing a cart full of ramen and kimchi like some broke college student. Super low-profile. Except not. People were sneaking glances, whispering to each other like they’d spotted Bigfoot.

Because here’s the thing: Oppa does not blend in.

Six feet tall? Check.

Ridiculously handsome? Check.

Constantly radiating "death aura"? Oh, absolutely.

Glowing eyes? Unholy aura of doom? Not exactly stealth material.

Then it happened. A kid pointed at him and stammered, “M-Mom, is that... Hunter Sung Jinwoo-ssi?”

Oppa froze mid-step, like he’d been caught committing tax fraud. Slowly—painfully—he backed up and pretended to inspect a bunch of green onions like they held the secrets of the universe.

It was one of the most tragically hilarious things I’d ever seen. This man fights cosmic horrors without breaking a sweat, but a curious child? Instant shutdown.

And don’t even get me started on the time he tried taking the subway.

I remember the headlines:

Breaking News: Shadow Monarch Spotted on Seoul Metro Line 2.

When I confronted him later, it went about as well as you’d expect.

“Oppa, what were you thinking?”

“I just wanted to get to the Guild building without causing a scene.”

I blinked. “…Public transport is a scene for you.”

He shrugged.  Like getting live-streamed by a hundred commuters was just a minor inconvenience. The man could’ve shadow-teleported across the city in three seconds flat, but nooo. He had to try and be “normal.”

Truly tragic.

The Sad Disguise Chronicles

Oppa has this thing where he tries not to get recognized. It’s both adorable and incredibly pathetic.

His version of a “disguise”? Baseball cap and sunglasses.

As if that’s all it takes to hide the most famous Shadow Monarch on the planet. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

We went out to lunch once, and within three minutes, the waiter asked, “Excuse me... Are y-you Hunter Sung Jinwoo-nim?”

Oppa froze mid-bite, clearly hoping I’d jump in and save him. I didn’t. This was too good to interrupt.

Finally, he muttered, “No. I just… look like him.”

The waiter squinted. “But your aura’s kinda scary...”

“...Complicated health issues,” Oppa deadpanned, somehow keeping a straight face.

The poor guy nodded and backed off, probably too confused and scared to question it further. I was shaking with laughter by the time Jinwoo glared at me.

“You could’ve helped.”

“Why? That was gold.”

I swear, sometimes he thinks he’s living in a low-budget spy movie. Dude, your face is on every news channel. You can’t just "disguise" your way out of it with sunglasses. This is not a Marvel movie.

Then there are the chores. Don’t even get me started on the chores.

The other day, I caught him vacuuming the living room. Yes. Vacuuming. Like he doesn’t have an army of shadow soldiers who could probably deep-clean the entire country if he asked.

“Oppa, why are you vacuuming? You can literally summon Igris to do this.”

He paused, as if the thought had genuinely never crossed his mind. “That’s... not the point.”

Oh, of course. The point is apparently ‘staying grounded’ or some other noble nonsense he’s got rattling around in his head. Like vacuuming the apartment will somehow keep the weight of the world from crushing him.

And maybe it does. Maybe these tiny, painfully mundane acts of normalcy are the only things holding him together.

But still... does he have to drag me into it?

“Jinah, can you do the dishes?” he asked the other day, all casual-like

I gave him my best are you serious right now? face. “You’re kidding, right? Oppa, I’m a busy young lady. I have important responsibilities.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like binge-watching variety shows with Songyi! Those marathons aren’t going to watch themselves, you know.”

“Maybe Beru can do them instead,” I added hopefully. “Or Igris. I hear he’s got excellent form with a mop.”

Oppa didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, he hit me with the stare—that unimpressed mom glare he probably inherited when he became King of Shadows or whatever. You know the one. The ‘I raised you while Mom was in a coma, and this is how you turn out?’ look.

SMH. He has no appreciation for the finer things in life. Like escaping chores. Truly tragic.

The "Normal" Life That Isn’t

Sometimes I think Oppa really believes he can pull off a normal life. Like if he does enough mundane things—running errands, walking through parks—people will magically forget he's a godlike warrior who pulverized a dragon on live TV.

Spoiler: he can’t.

I saw it happen once. We were out for a walk when a little girl pointed at him, tugging on her mom’s sleeve. “Mommy, is that the hero from TV?”

The mom froze mid-step, eyes wide, like she was debating whether to scream or ask for an autograph. Meanwhile, Oppa just smiled politely, nodded, and kept walking as if that wasn’t a totally surreal encounter.

Like... dude. No.

Later, I called him out.

“Oppa, you can’t just keep pretending you’re normal.”

He looked at me, dead serious. “I like walking.”

“Okay... but do you like being mobbed by fans? Because that’s what’s coming next.”

Nothing. He didn’t even blink. Just shrugged like the whole world recognizing him was an annoying, but necessary, part of his day.

That’s the thing about him. He’s weird that way. Always has been. He doesn’t want to be worshipped or crowned. He doesn’t want fanfare or titles. He just wants to be Sung Jinwoo—the guy who still nags me about my chores more than Mom.

It’s... kind of endearing, if I’m being honest. But still, if he ever pulls another ‘let’s ride public transport like a normal person’ stunt, I’m absolutely recording the entire thing.

For blackmail purposes, obviously.

The Burden He Won’t Talk About

See, most people think Oppa’s invincible. And I get why. Everyone else sees an untouchable force of nature—the Shadow Monarch who never stops winning. Someone more than just a Hunter. He’s powerful, unstoppable, invincible. He never shows pain, never falters in battle. The world believes in this myth they’ve created around him.

But me? I see the cracks.

I see them when he stumbles through the door after shadow-teleporting halfway across the world. For just a second, the shadows around him flicker, sputtering like dying streetlights. His steps are slow, as though his body can’t keep up anymore. His face is pale, exhaustion carved deep into his features.

I see it in the way he hesitates sometimes, like he’s forgotten what day it is or how long it’s been since he last slept. 

He never talks about it. He never has to.

“People think you’re invincible, you know,” I muttered once, watching him slouch on the couch after yet another dungeon break overseas.

Oppa smiled faintly, eyes already half-closed — but there was a glint there I couldn't quite decipher. “Good.”

Good? Seriously? What’s good about letting people believe you’re untouchable until they work you into the ground?

But that’s how he’s wired. He carries the weight of the world like it’s his personal responsibility. No complaints. No speeches.

Oppa Stole My Ramyeon. The Audacity.

And then there’s the ramyeon incident.

I came home one evening to find the apartment suspiciously quiet. Never a good sign. Sure enough, there he was—Sung Jinwoo, Shadow Monarch, strongest hunter in the world—knocked out cold on the couch. He looked less like some grand hero and more like a sleep-deprived college student in the middle of finals week. His arm was draped over his face, shadows flickering lazily around him like they were tired too.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

My ramyeon. My poor, defenseless, half-eaten bowl of instant ramyeon… gone. His empty chopsticks sat on the table like a crime scene.

“Really, Oppa?” I muttered, nudging his arm with my foot. No response.  The man who fought dragons and cosmic horrors without breaking a sweat had been taken down by a food coma. Classic.

A single noodle was stuck to the corner of his mouth. I stood there, contemplating my next move. Should I take a picture? Use it for future blackmail? The possibilities were endless.

But... nah. Too easy. I’ll save that ammo for when I really need it.

Instead, I grabbed a blanket and draped it over him. Up close, he looked rough—scars peeking out from under his sleeves, exhaustion carved into his face like battle lines. He hadn’t slept properly in days, maybe longer.

I’ve told him before: You need a vacation, Oppa. Like, a real one. Sun, sand, zero dungeons.

But does he listen? Of course not. That would make too much sense.

Apparently, carrying the weight of the world and stealing my dinner is all part of his completely normal life plan.

The World’s Great Delusion

The next day, there he was again—on the news, stabilizing some dungeon break on the other side of the planet

Predictably, the rest of the world was losing its collective mind.

Hunters, analysts, politicians—they couldn’t shut up about it. Everyone was theorizing about Oppa’s next move, like he was some mythical figure plotting world domination. Social media buzzed with headlines:

“Shadow Monarch Stabilizes Dungeon in Norway—UN Summit Imminent?”

Spoiler alert: No. He’s not plotting global conquest. He just doesn’t want monsters spilling out and ruining people’s lives.

But that doesn’t stop the endless noise.

I hear them all the time—talk shows, politicians, online forums, wherever people think they know him. They debate whether Oppa’s going to crown himself world emperor or dissolve every nation on the planet.

“He’s probably strategizing a global takeover,” one hunter analyst declared on TV the other day, all serious and self-important.

Yeah. No. This is the same guy who asked me if our kimchi had gone bad. Real conqueror vibes.

And then there’s the live stream takes.

“He doesn’t even sleep, does he?” another analyst asked during a live stream, eyebrows raised like they’d just cracked some profound cosmic mystery.

Close, but not quite. Oppa doesn’t sleep. He crashes. There’s a difference. He’ll pass out wherever he can—on couches, benches, hell, sometimes under tables—like a stray cat that forgot what a real bed is. And then, just like clockwork, he wakes up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and goes right back to monster hunting. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s not rest. It’s a glorified reboot cycle. Honestly, if he weren’t the Shadow Monarch, I’d swear he was running on Windows XP.

And yet, they still think he’s invincible. A god walking among hunters and mortals.

It’s funny—until it isn’t.

Because I get it now.  All this—him pathetically pretending to live like a normal guy—it’s not just him being weird. It’s him hanging on by the thinnest thread, trying to convince himself that he can still have something close to a life. Like if he keeps vacuuming the apartment and picking out vegetables, maybe he can believe the weight of the world hasn’t crushed him yet. Maybe, for just a moment, he can pretend there are no shadows, no armies, no throne carved from suffering.

And the world buys it. Hook, line, and sinker. They think he’s untouchable. They believe this perfect illusion. But I see the cracks.

I see the guy who reminds me to carry extra umbrellas “just in case.” I see the ramyeon-stealing idiot who passes out on the couch in ratty pajamas after shadow-teleporting halfway across the world to save hundreds of strangers.

They don’t see that. They never will.

And honestly? Maybe it’s better that way.

I glance over at him now—slurping ramen on our couch in ratty pajamas. His hair’s a mess, there’s a noodle stuck to his sleeve, and he’s barely keeping his eyes open while the TV blares his latest heroic feat in full cinematic glory. You’d think they were announcing the second coming of a divine warrior with all the slow-mo shadow effects and tragic violins.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t comment on the praise, the headlines, the over-the-top footage of him slashing through monsters like it’s a damn blockbuster. He just stirs his noodles and quietly flips the channel.

Now, the TV’s showing a food documentary. Hotteok sizzling on a street cart. Oh, and of course, Lee Minsung—A-rank celebrity hunter and self-declared heartthrob—plastering his face across the screen like he’s God's gift to humanity. (Not even close.)

I make a face. “Wow. Minsung again. I'd rather watch a toothpaste ad.”

Jinwoo shrugs, eyes half-lidded, and changes the channel again. This time, it’s some dull nature documentary about dinosaurs.

Dinosaurs. Who the hell cares about dinosaurs?

“They’re overdoing it,” he mutters as he stirs his broth.

Overdoing it. Overdoing it?! Oh, sure. The world collapsing at your feet, worshipping you like some omnipotent guardian—is just too much. Poor you, Oppa. Can’t handle a little global hero worship?

But I don’t say that. I don’t ask him to explain. I just watch him quietly. The shadows around him flicker softly, like they’re tired, too. He doesn’t even notice. He just stirs the broth absently, his mind clearly somewhere else, as the dinosaur narrator drones on about extinction.

It’s easier to joke about it. To roll my eyes and call him a tragic disaster of a human being. But at this moment, with the TV’s dim glow casting shadows across his face, all the jokes fade away.

Because that’s when it hits me.

He isn’t the god they worship. He’s not the indestructible legend they’ve built up in their heads. He’s just... Oppa.

The guy who worked himself half to death in E-rank dungeons just to pay my school tuition. The guy who buys extra groceries on sale because, in his words, “you never know.” The guy who’s so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open some days but keeps going because, in his mind, stopping isn’t an option.

They don’t see that.

They never will.

They’ll keep calling him invincible. They’ll keep stacking expectations on him like bricks on his back. And when he finally collapses under all that weight, they’ll act shocked. They’ll mourn him as the perfect, untouchable savior who “finally broke,” never once realizing he was human all along.

It’s cruel, isn’t it? How the world can crush you with love and adoration. They’ll never understand the weight they’re suffocating him with. They’ll never see the ramen-stealing idiot who crashes on couches like a stray cat.  They’ll never notice the man breaking slowly, quietly, in the shadows.

But I do.

I see him. And I always will.

Chapter Text

THE TERRIFYING, MADDENINGLY BRILLIANT MIND OF SUNG JINWOO

It’s funny how everyone assumes I’m the smart one in the family.

Probably because I’m pre-med. You say "pre-med," and suddenly people are like, Wow, she’s a genius! Like that phrase automatically unlocks Einstein-tier respect. But if they had ever spent an afternoon doing homework under Oppa’s watchful, terrifyingly tactical gaze, they’d know who the real genius is.

Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’m no slouch. I’ve got good grades, work hard, and can solve a differential equation without breaking a sweat. But Jinwoo Oppa? He’s on another plane of existence. And the craziest part? No one even realizes it because he’s so damn quiet and oblivious about it.

Breaking News: Sung Jinwoo Saves the World (Again)

So, here we are. The TV blares breaking news across the world, because of course it does. Something about a massive interdimensional rift opening somewhere in Africa—complete with nightmare-fuel creatures swarming out like it’s some cosmic Black Friday sale.

And guess who’s already on the scene?

Yep. Sung Jinwoo. My dear older brother, aka “Shadow Monarch,” aka “Earth’s Savior", aka the guy who’s allergic to taking a day off. You’d think, after saving humanity from apocalypse once or twice (or a dozen times), he’d get a break. But noooo. The world’s got dungeon problems, and Jinwoo’s got solutions.

The camera zooms in on him standing at the center of this chaos like it’s a mildly inconvenient picnic. Storm clouds churn ominously overhead, monsters screeching in the distance. But there he is—looking cool as ever, with that whole "untouchable god of death and shadows" vibe going strong.

You’d think that’s the terrifying part about him.

Nah. Not even close. The scariest thing about Sung Jinwoo?

.

His brain.

Trust me. I used to be tutored by him. His tactical brain is the monster.

Welcome to Sung Jinwoo’s Battle Chessboard

The first few minutes of this broadcast are deceptively calm. The creatures—imagine Lovecraftian monstrosities with too many limbs and way too many teeth—are spreading across the battlefield. News anchors are rambling about how “unprecedented” and “unstoppable” the invasion looks. Analysts are probably taking bets on how many countries will be flattened.

Meanwhile, Jinwoo’s just… standing there.

"Do something, Oppa," I mutter at the screen, half-annoyed. Seriously, he always takes his time in the beginning, and it's maddening. I swear he’s playing psychological games with everyone.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned: if Oppa's standing still, it means he’s already 20 steps ahead. He’s calculating, observing, memorizing every weakness of those monsters. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

And then—just as the anchor’s voice starts climbing into full-blown panic mode—he moves.

"Here we go," I say, leaning forward. It’s chess time.

Step One: Lure the Enemy into a Trap They Don’t Even Know Exists

The camera switches to an aerial drone view. Jinwoo’s shadow soldiers are spreading out in perfect formation, surrounding the invading forces like an army of ghosts. Shadow tendrils ripple across the ground, making everything look like a living, breathing nightmare.

The monsters? Yeah, they’re not having a good time. They charge forward in chaotic waves, thinking they can overwhelm by sheer numbers. It's the kind of strategy you'd expect from creatures that rely on instinct and brute force.

Big mistake. Oppa doesn’t do chaos. He controls it.

See, this is where his scary-smart brain kicks in. He’s not just trying to hold the line—he’s funneling the monsters toward specific choke points he’s already set up.Shadow barriers materialize from the ground, cutting off escape routes and forcing the creatures into pre-planned kill zones. They’re basically lemmings at this point, and the worst part is they don’t even realize it.

"Classic," I mutter under my breath. "Oppa’s shadow funnel* tactic. Works every time."

I should probably trademark that for him. Seriously, I’ve watched him pull this move in enough battles that it’s practically his signature play. No need for dramatic speeches or commands—his soldiers just know. It’s like they’re telepathically synced to his brain.

It's almost poetic. If poetry was about silently orchestrating a monster massacre, anyway. The soldiers move like a shadow symphony—creeping, striking, rearranging the battlefield without a single wasted second.

*Disclaimer, all questionable butchering of Oppa's battle skills' names are done deliberately by yours truly. I absolutely do not want to spend hours reading those KHA, military, and hunter forums speculating about his arsenal. I’ll ask Oppa later. Maybe. If I remember.

The Mind Games Begin

The monsters try to adapt—some of them start climbing over each other to bypass the traps. And for a moment, I think they might actually break through. But Jinwoo’s already accounted for that. Of course he has.

"Bet they didn’t see that coming," I snort as a massive shadow dome suddenly encloses the largest monster cluster.

Inside, the air warps with pure shadow mana. The camera feed glitches for a second, probably because it can’t handle the amount of energy he’s unleashing. When it stabilizes, the monsters are either frozen in place or disintegrating into black mist.

"Note to self: Never, ever get trapped inside one of Oppa’s shadow domes."

Monster Commanders? Yeah, Good Luck with That

Just when it looks like Jinwoo’s got the upper hand, something changes. The camera catches movement from the rift—larger, more intelligent creatures stepping forward. They’re clearly the leaders, probably capable of coordinating the swarm.

Now, if this were any other hunter, I’d be worried. But this is Jinwoo. The man doesn’t just fight commanders. He demolishes them.

He vanishes from the battlefield in a blur of shadow teleportation, reappearing directly in front of one of the lead monsters. The thing hesitates for half a second—just long enough for Jinwoo to drive a dagger straight through its core.

"That’s one down," I mutter, watching the other commanders scramble.

Another monster lunges at him, but Igris intercepts it with a blade strike that sends sparks flying. Beru, meanwhile, is tearing through enemies with his usual terrifying efficiency. It's a massacre, and Jinwoo is orchestrating every second of it without breaking a sweat.

World Leaders Probably Losing Their Minds

I can only imagine what’s happening behind the scenes right now. World leaders and military generals are probably glued to their screens, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing.

Somewhere out there, a bunch of high-ranking officials is probably having a nervous breakdown.

"Oh no, the Shadow Monarch’s too powerful!" I mock in a fake panicky voice. "What if he turns on humanity?!"

Yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen. These people don’t know Oppa like I do. He doesn’t care about power. He doesn’t even care about the fame or recognition. He’s just… doing his job. And that’s what scares them the most.

The Grand Finale

The battlefield reaches its climax when Jinwoo summons Kaisel. The wyvern swoops down from the clouds, roaring like a living storm. Jinwoo leaps onto his back, raising a massive surge of shadow energy in his hand.

The news feed glitches again as the screen fills with pure darkness. A moment later, the entire monster army collapses in on itself, swallowed by Jinwoo’s power. The rift begins to seal, its energy snuffed out like a candle.

And just like that… it’s over.

The camera zooms in on Jinwoo one last time. He’s standing calmly on Kaisel’s back, his expression unreadable. To the world, he probably looks like an untouchable god.

To me, he just looks like my brother.

"Show-off," I mutter, though I can’t help but smile.

.

The news anchors are losing their minds, calling this another miracle. But I know better. This wasn’t a miracle. It was just Jinwoo being Jinwoo—brilliant, terrifying, and maddeningly humble about it all.

"You’d better eat something after this, Oppa," I say to the TV. "Don’t think I don’t know you skipped lunch again."

Somewhere, I hope he hears me.

So you see, You Think It’s Just the Power? Pfft. Get in Line, You Clueless Noobs.

So here’s the thing about the world . They see Sung Jinwoo—the guy who saved everyone from the Monarchs, dragons, Antares, collapsing dimensions, etc.—and think, Oh wow, of course he can do that. He’s OP as hell.

I mean, sure. He’s got an army of shadow monsters at his beck and call, can teleport halfway across the globe in seconds, and can probably one-shot a mountain if he felt like it. I get it. The power flex is real.

But let me tell you something—controlling an entire legion of shadows with your mind isn’t just some hack or video game cheat. You don’t just “click” and move armies like you’re in Age of Empires .

This takes tactical brilliance on a terrifying level. He’s out-thinking entire armies, outmaneuvering commanders, and playing 4D chess while everyone else struggles with checkers.

But you wouldn’t know that, would you, Internet geniuses?

And yes, I’m talking about my brother, who once couldn’t remember where we kept the rice cooker for two years.

The Internet Thinks It Knows Everything

Ah, the Internet—home to the world’s worst hot takes. Forums, news articles, reaction videos, you name it—everyone’s an expert when it comes to Oppa. They talk about him like he’s some overpowered RPG boss designed to make players rage quit.

Here’s a selection of their abysmal takes:

@420NoScopeHero: “Lol, imagine being Sung Jinwoo. Must be nice having OP powers that do all the work for you.”

@TacticalNuke6969: “Honestly, he’s basically invincible. Like, what’s the point of strategy when you can just spam shadow soldiers and teleport around?”

@GamerGod1988: “Nah, if I had his powers, I’d have ended the Monarch War in a week.”

Yeah, sure, buddy. You’re the same person who accidentally deletes your save file halfway through Starcraft and rage-quits after mismanaging your workers for ten minutes. You think commanding thousands of shadow soldiers, each with different abilities, across a battlefield filled with death monsters is a breeze? Please.

Here’s a fun fact for you: Oppa has to mentally control every single soldier in his army while also keeping track of environmental hazards, enemy formations, and strategic points. It’s like playing 4D chess with multiple boards. If that doesn’t scream "genius tactician," I don’t know what does.

It's Not Just About Throwing Shadows

Take that recent interdimensional rift battle. To most people watching, it probably looked like Oppa was flexing his raw power. Oh no! Scary shadows everywhere! Look at Hunter Sung Jinwoo obliterate everything like a god!

But I’m sitting here with my popcorn thinking, Y’all have no idea what you’re looking at.

Here’s the truth: Oppa doesn’t just spam shadow soldiers and call it a day. No, he mapped out the entire battlefield in his mind like he was playing chess against fifteen opponents at once. He knew exactly where to position his soldiers, how to bait the enemy into traps, and when to strike. His moves weren’t flashy—just surgically precise.

Here’s the thing about Jinwoo’s battle tactics:

1. He doesn’t fight fair. (And no, that’s not a bad thing.) Oppa uses every trick, every environmental factor, and every psychological advantage he can find. If that means collapsing half a mountain to pin an enemy, so be it. Efficiency > honor duels.
2. He plans five moves ahead. The monsters? They were dead the moment they walked into the trap he set fifteen minutes before anyone realized it was there.
3. He multitasks like a man possessed. I’ve seen this firsthand during our homework sessions. He’d be helping me with algebra while figuring out his own calculus problem and managing dinner plans at the same time. It was terrifying.

But sure, Internet geniuses, tell me again how it's all just "raw power." Let’s see how long you’d last with a death army in your head. Five minutes? No. You’d have a full-on mental breakdown before you could even summon Shadow Soldier #1.

Military Analysts Are No Better

You’d think military experts, of all people, would know better. I mean, they’re supposed to understand things like strategy and tactics, right? Wrong. Watching their so-called “professional analyses” of Oppa’s battles makes me want to put my head through a wall. Repeatedly.

Exhibit A:

Military Commentator #1: “While impressive, Sung Jinwoo’s overwhelming power may lead to complacency. One wonders if he truly needs tactical finesse when his army can overwhelm most threats by sheer numbers.”

Bruh. What army are you looking at? Have you seen how his soldiers move? That’s not “mindless overwhelming force.” That’s the kind of coordination that makes your top-tier military drills look like kindergarten recess. Every shadow soldier knows exactly where to be, how to move, and when to strike—because Oppa’s brain is running that entire symphony of death like a tactical maestro.

Then there’s Exhibit B:

Military Commentator #2: “If the Shadow Monarch ever turned on humanity, the world would stand no chance. We must consider all contingencies to control such power.”

Control him? Okay, go ahead. Try telling Oppa to take orders from your shiny little think tank. He’ll just smile politely and teleport to the other side of the planet before you finish your sentence.

He doesn’t have time for your posturing. He’s too busy saving the world from apocalyptic threats to entertain your delusions of control, Karen.

The Reality of Being Sung Jinwoo

Here’s the kicker: Oppa doesn’t even see himself the way these people do. To him, all of this—every dungeon crisis, every battle—is just… his responsibility. He’s not in it for power or fame. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge his tactical genius half the time.

Which is such a shame, honestly. Because if I had a mind like his, you’d never hear the end of it. I'd be insufferable. But Oppa? He just quietly demolishes interdimensional invasions like it’s another Tuesday and goes back to shadow-teleporting groceries home.

Case in point: I once asked him about that insanely effective shadow funnel tactic... thingy he used in the latest battle.

“Oh, I just thought it would work,” he said with that same nonchalant tone he uses when deciding between ramyeon flavors.

“You thought it would work?” I deadpan. “Oppa, you dismantled an entire monster army.”

He blinked, looking mildly amused. “Shadow Convergence Formation.”

I pause. “… What?”

“The tactic. It’s called the Shadow Convergence Formation,” he corrects like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, sorry. My bad,” I mock. I’ll just jot that down in my official Tactical Terminology for Sung Jinwoo’s World-Saving Techniques notebook.

He shrugs, completely unbothered, and walks off.

I swear, he’s terrifying not just because he’s brilliant, but because he doesn’t even realize how brilliant he is. To him, strategizing at the level of a war god is just another day at the office.

But that’s Oppa for you. Always downplaying his brilliance while I sit here wondering why I’m related to a tactical alien mastermind.

Look, I love my brother. I’d probably throw hands if anyone tried to mess with him. But as his sister, it is my sacred duty—my moral obligation—to roast him into oblivion. It’s a matter of principle.

For someone with the tactical mind of a war god, Oppa is utterly hopeless at normal things. Case in point: basic navigation. He gets lost. Frequently. We once had to rescue him from our own neighborhood. I’m not kidding. The man lived there for years and still couldn’t remember which street led back to the apartment. A shadow soldier had to guide him home like a GPS with legs.

Then there’s the eternal phone mystery. You’d think someone who can teleport across dimensions could keep track of a single device, but no. Oppa regularly spends thirty minutes looking for his phone only to discover it was in his pocket the whole time. Genius. Truly.

But in battle? Oh, he’s flawless. A machine. It’s terrifying, really. The same guy who loses track of his wallet for days is out there dismantling entire monster armies without breaking a sweat.

And that’s the part the world doesn’t get. They keep yapping about how it’s “just the power” like anyone in his position could do the same. Spoiler: no. Most people wouldn’t last five minutes in Oppa’s shoes without accidentally nuking the planet. I’ve seen both sides of him—the brother who once tutored me through algebra hell and the Shadow Monarch who can outmaneuver entire armies in his sleep.

So yeah. The power’s impressive. But it’s his mind that scares me. And if you’ve ever had to solve calculus under his watchful gaze, you’d know exactly what I mean.

The Goldfish and His Victims: Those Poor, Poor Shadow Soldiers

Let’s talk about memory . Specifically, Oppa’s hilarious and tragic relationship with it.

Sure, the world sees him as this terrifying, all-knowing, battle-hardened genius who probably has every monster’s weak point mapped out in his mind. And to be fair, that’s mostly true. When it comes to combat, he’s a walking supercomputer. He can predict enemy movements, trap entire armies, and strategize ten steps ahead without breaking a sweat.

But the second you step out of a life-or-death scenario? Boom. Memory reset. This man can remember how to counter a high-level mana beast mid-air but can’t remember basic things like… where he left his phone. Or names.

Especially names.

The Curse of Forgetting Names

This is where things get really embarrassing. Oppa has been "blessed" with incredible power and an equally incredible curse: the inability to remember what he named his own soldiers .

Let’s run through some of his greatest hits, shall we?

Beru: Yeah, this is the terrifying insect monster that could probably solo entire S-rank teams. You’d think Oppa gave him some grand, awe-inspiring name, right? Wrong. It’s literally short for "beetle" in Korean (벌레 → 베루). That’s it. My brother took one look at this terrifying apex predator and went, "Bug. You’re Bug now." And somehow, Beru still salutes him loyally.

Tusk (a.k.a. Fang): Originally, this guy’s name was Kargalgan, a title that oozes ancient power and terror. But apparently, Oppa’s brain short-circuited when he tried to remember it, so he went, "Uh… you’ve got tusks, so… Tusk it is." Good thing Tusk isn’t too picky about names. He’s probably just grateful he wasn’t named “Elephant Guy.”

Kaisel: This is a freaking dragon, okay? A majestic, awe-inspiring wyvern, and the best Oppa could come up with was… Kaisel. Not terrible, but legend has it that Jinwoo forgot the original name entirely. Something like “Kaiselletorix…Kaisel—uh, you know what? Kaisel.” I’m pretty sure that was his exact thought process. 

(Edit: Apparently according to that said scary dragon shadow, his original name was Kaisellin. Kaisellin. You know, a perfectly respectable, dragon-worthy name with a hint of mystique and grandeur. I had to pat his nose in sympathy.

Now we have a poor dragon who is forever stuck with a name that sounds like a budget coffee order. "Hi, I’ll have a Kaisel-latte with extra shadow foam, please. )

Shadow Soldier No. 264: Yeah... When you’ve got an army of thousands of soldiers, I guess you stop trying. This poor guy didn’t even get a real name. Shadow Soldier No. 264. I imagine his shadow friends calling him, "Yo, Two-Sixty-Four," while he drowns in existential despair.

Shadow Mage No. 57: Same problem, different job. Oppa’s idea of creativity at this point is assigning a number like he's running inventory at a warehouse. He could’ve at least gone with something cool like “Darkfire” or “Mana Ghost,” but nope. "Mage Fifty-Seven" it is.

The Naming Game (or Lack Thereof)

It’s honestly amazing. The man who defeated the Monarch of Destruction, Antares, couldn’t come up with more than bug and dragon-lite for his most powerful subordinates. This is the same guy who once corrected my calculus homework for fun but can’t remember how to spell "Kargalgan."

And you know what? I think Igris and Bellion only escaped this fate because they came prepackaged with names he couldn’t butcher. Can you imagine if Oppa had to name Igris on his own?

"Hmmm. You're wearing red armor. Let's call you… Red Knight Dude."

It’s terrifying to think about.

His Legendary Forgetfulness

This issue doesn’t just stop at names, by the way. Oppa’s forgetfulness extends to basically anything outside of battle strategy.

One time, Jinwoo got lost in his own neighborhood. Our neighborhood. He had lived there for years and still couldn’t remember which street led to the apartment. He ended up wandering around for 20 minutes until a shadow soldier had to guide him home.

Then there’s the time he spent 30 minutes looking for his phone, only to realize it was in his pocket. I swear, this man can calculate multi-layered dungeon break patterns in his head but can’t keep track of his wallet.

And don’t even get me started on how often he forgets to eat or sleep. Sometimes I’ll catch him zoning out, clearly in desperate need of rest, and he’ll say something like, “I forgot what time it was.”

How, Oppa? How do you forget the passage of time but not the intricacies of interdimensional combat tactics?!

The World's Misconceptions

This is the part that really cracks me up. People look at Oppa and think, "Ah yes, the Shadow Monarch—cold, detached, calculating, and inhuman." I hate those words.

Seriously, they have no clue about Oppa. Meanwhile, here I am, watching the same guy struggle to remember where the rice cooker is.

Like, sure, he’s a terrifying genius on the battlefield. His enemies probably wake up in cold sweats at 3 a.m., haunted by the question, "How did we lose before the fight even started?!"

But outside of battle?

He’s just… tired. Occasionally clueless. In desperate need of a life assistant or at least a calendar app he doesn’t forget exists.

And yet, here’s how I think his résumé would look if someone were being very honest:

Sung Jinwoo’s Real Résumé

Let’s not forget the essentials:

• Outsmarted the Monarchs of Destruction, Plague, and Frost—oh, and a few Rulers for good measure.
• Survived years as the world's weakest hunter without any powers—just sheer grit and terrifying adaptability.
• Solved life-or-death statue puzzles in that Double Dungeon incident. (Oh, and left himself behind as a human sacrifice. Classic Oppa.)
• Turned what should’ve been a 1v6 Eternal War into an Eternal Win.
• Manages an army of thousands of shadow soldiers while planning five moves ahead in battles.
• Somehow names his most powerful allies things like “Bug,” “Tusk,” and… Shadow Mage No. 57.

And my personal favorites:

• The scariest tutor I’ve ever had.

  Back when he was an E-rank hunter juggling three jobs to pay for my tuition and Mom’s hospital bills, Oppa somehow still found time to tutor me in math. And let me tell you—getting grilled about polynomial factorization by a sleep-deprived, ramyeon-fueled dungeon survivor was a special kind of nightmare.

  “Why did you mess up this negative sign, Jinah? Would you survive a dungeon trap like that?”

  Like... Sir, I’m twelve. Please chill.

• Shadow teleportation mishaps:

  You know how he gets lost in his own neighborhood? Yeah, now imagine him teleporting halfway across the globe on zero sleep. Sometimes, he lands perfectly. Other times, we get stories of him crashing in weird places because his brain forgot to coordinate the landing. (He’s saved people from dungeon breaks only to pass out under a park bench afterward. Don’t ask me how I know—Jinchul-ssi, Haein Eonnie, and Jinho Oppa are in on this secret too.)

  Oh, and spoiler alert: I’ve got a whole chapter dedicated to this chaos coming soon. Stay tuned for "The Adventures of Sung Jinwoo: Shadow Monarch or Stray Cat?". You won't want to miss it.

It’s the balance of extremes that really gets me. He’s capable of rewriting fate and closing rifts between worlds, but he also misplaces his phone, forgets to sleep, and once wandered aimlessly until a shadow soldier had to guide him home like a lost tourist.

So yes, Oppa might be humanity’s strongest protector. But to me? He’s still the exasperating brother who accidentally named a death mage like he was organizing warehouse inventory. The guy who outmaneuvered immortal beings but loses to everyday logistics.

.

And that’s the Sung Jinwoo you’ll never see on TV.

You’re welcome :)

Chapter Text

PART I - Two Sides of the Same Coin: The Hero of Humanity

My Brother, The Myth, The Legend, The Absolute Nightmare

There are days when I can pretend my life is normal.

Days when I wake up, go to school, complain about math being the worst thing since the dawn of time, buy some snacks, and come home to my absurdly overpowered older brother—who, despite being the eldritch horror that smiles politely(TM), the boogeyman of anything with mana, and the reason dungeon monsters wake up in cold sweats at night—

—is still just a twenty-something-year-old dork who once burned instant ramen and got scammed into buying five boxes of overpriced skincare because some salesperson told him, with absolute confidence, that it would be “good for your mom.”

(Mom still has three unopened boxes.)

And then there are days like today.

Days when I step outside, take one single breath of fresh air, and immediately remember that my life is a cosmic joke.

Because right now, in the middle of a packed city plaza, an IMAX-tier cinematic masterpiece of my own brother is playing on a giant LED screen, complete with a booming orchestral soundtrack, slow-motion fight scenes, and dramatic narration that makes it sound like he’s the protagonist of a billion-dollar Marvel movie.

.

The crowd is eating it up.

Voices buzz like a hive of bees, rising in reverence as they watch Sung Jinwoo vs. The End of the World.

I watch with the dead-eyed exhaustion of someone who has seen this man trip over a laundry basket and blame it on Beru.

Onscreen, the world is ending.

Dragons and otherwordly armies fall from the sky.
Mountains crumble into dust.
His army of literal undead warriors bows at his feet, shadows writhing like they’re worshiping something far beyond human comprehension.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t already personally mocking me, the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers:

“The savior of humanity. The protector of all nations. Sung Jinwoo, the Shadow Monarch.”

.

I pull my hoodie up higher and resist the overwhelming urge to walk into traffic.

The savior of humanity, huh?

God, you’d think they were teasing an Avengers sequel. All he needs now is a cape and a dramatic pose.

I mean, sure. Oppa is strong. Stupidly strong. And yes, he did technically save the entire world. Fine, maybe he did rip through an interdimensional war like it was a minor inconvenience.

But this? Come on, this is absurd.

.

This is the same man who once fell asleep with his phone on his face and nearly gave himself a black eye.
The same man who binge-watches crime dramas like he’s studying for a detective license he will never get.

The same man who genuinely does not know how Twitter/X, Youtube, Instagram, or Tiktok works.

Not that the crowd cares.

And yet, here we are.

And oh, the crowd is loving it.

I spot a woman wiping away actual tears, whispering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer.

A man next to her clutches his chest like he’s about to have a religious awakening.

A pair of tourists are practically vibrating with excitement, their eyes locked on the screen.

Then, one of them breathes, in hushed, reverent awe. "That’s him. That’s the hunter who saved the world."

I cringe. My soul exits my body.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I pivot so fast I nearly dislocate something.

I am not getting dragged into yet another Sung Jinwoo Hysteria™ today.

I do the only logical thing: I leave.

Turn. Hood up. Speedwalk the hell out of there before someone realizes I share a last name with Korea’s walking apocalypse and tries to recruit me into the Shadow Monarch’s Fan Club™.

I can already hear the headlines: “Sung Jinwoo’s sister reacts to emotional tribute.”

Ugh, no thanks.

I’m already halfway out of the plaza when another giant screen catches my eye.

Oh, come on. What now.

It’s the Global Hunter Ranking Board.

One of those real-time updated lists displaying the world’s strongest hunters, glowing in bold letters for everyone to see.

I already know what I’m about to see, but like an absolute fool, I look anyway.

And there it is.

The usual names at the top. National-Level Hunters. The powerhouses of the world. Those who survived and slayed Kamish.

Thomas Andre.

Liu Zhigang.

Christopher Reed.

Siddharth Bachchan.

Antoine Martinez.

And then—

Sitting above all of them.

Not even in the ranking list.

No.

In his own separate category.

Like a DLC expansion character that broke the meta so hard they had to ban him from the actual game.

Sung Jinwoo

[SHADOW MONARCH]

I squint.

I blink.

I double-take so hard I nearly dislocate something.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN SEPARATE CATEGORY?!

Oh, right. I already know why.

Because after what he did to Antares, the world collectively sat down, had a serious discussion, and went:

"Okay, so we can’t rank this guy with everyone else. Because that would be like putting a black hole in a footrace and pretending it’s fair."

"New plan: We make a new category. Just for him. So the other hunters don’t start crying themselves to sleep."

And apparently, nobody even questioned it.

Like, everyone just nodded and said, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

I stare at the board, my entire brain short-circuiting.

Then I stare at Oppa's name.

Then I stare at the ranking list where even people like Thomas Andre are looking up at him like he’s a final boss that accidentally wandered into the wrong game.

I can’t even be mad. This is objectively hilarious.

The entire world looked at my brother, saw what he did to the literal King of Dragons, and went, “Nah. This man is no longer a hunter. He is an Act of God.”

I cover my face with both hands and whisper into my palms, “This is so stupid.”

Oppa’s Shadow Monarch Origin Story (A Tragedy in Three Acts)

a.k.a. How Oppa Gaslight-Gatekeep-Girlbossed His Way Into Accidental Godhood (Sort Of?) and Now I Have to Live With It

It wasn’t always like this.

There was a time when Oppa was just Sung Jinwoo, was "just" Korea’s strongest hunter, the guy who came out of nowhere and instantly climbed to the top. People were impressed—some were terrified—but at the end of the day, he was still a hunter.

A legend, sure. A phenomenon, maybe. But still a man.

Then the Monarchs came.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just a hunter anymore.

The title “Shadow Monarch” wasn’t something humanity gave him.

It wasn’t an honor. It wasn’t a nickname.

It was a declaration.

Because the first ones to call him that weren’t humans.

It was the Monarchs themselves—hissing it, growling it, spitting it in fury as they tore through the world trying to kill him.

And oh boy, did they try.

The world heard those voices.

When he fought them in Asia, the skies turned black.
When he fought them in Europe, the storms swallowed the land.
When he fought them in America, the ground itself shattered beneath their battle.

And then there was Canada.

Where three Monarchs stabbed him in a brutal, coordinated attack so visceral that the global human lifespan collectively shortened by ten years.

This all happened live, in 4K Ultra HD, with dramatic camera angles, slow-motion replays, and the kind of cinematography that belonged in a tragic war documentary.

The entire planet took a breath and went:

“…Oh. Oh no.”

.

For the first time, they saw him bleed.
For the first time, they saw him fall.
For one agonizing moment, humanity thought they had just witnessed their savior die.

And me?

I was at home. Watching. Frozen in place. Phone in a death grip. Soul exiting my body.

WHAT THE HELL, OPP—

.

But of course.

Because he physically cannot let me live in peace, Oppa got back up.

And then proceeded to annihilate them so thoroughly that their entire species technically went extinct.

Which—okay. Fine. That’s cool.

But I still cannot forgive him for making Mom and me cry—the ugly, snot-dripping, can’t-breathe, why-would-you-do-this-to-us sobbing—for one single, very horrible moment.

.

So yeah.

The world calls it “the legendary moment when Sung Jinwoo defied death itself.”

I call it “the time my idiot brother gave the entire planet a collective heart attack for ✨ plot tension ✨.”

Which is why, whenever people start waxing poetic about the unwavering might of the Shadow Monarch, I have to physically resist the urge to grab them by the shoulders and scream:

“HE DIED ON SCREEN. I DIED INSIDE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND.”

.

I think that’s when Oppa stopped being a man and became a myth. And that Antares battle happened. You know the one.

The world no longer saw the hoodie-wearing, socially-awkward guy who once got a vending machine snack stuck and spent thirty whole seconds glaring at it before Beru retrieved it like a butler.

Nope.

He was The Shadow Monarch.

A title so dramatic, so cartoonishly overpowered that it felt like it belonged to the final boss of a video game.

.

And honestly?

That’s on them.

Because these over-the-top, monologuing, world-ending villains came to this planet with a We’re Here to Annihilate Humanity™ agenda—only to get bodied in every timezone.

And in their final moments, whether out of hatred, spite, or sheer oh my god we messed up panic, they screamed his name like a prophecy.

“THE SHADOW MONARCH!”

Cool, thanks for the branding, I guess?

.

And of course, because the universe hates me, it had been caught on recordings.

Broadcasted across nations.

Echoing from the mouths of the most powerful, most nightmarishly destructive beings to ever exist. Immortalized in history.

And what did Oppa do?

.

Nothing.

He was too busy committing interdimensional war crimes to care.

I guarantee that if you showed him a headline like “The Shadow Monarch: Humanity’s Final Line of Defense,” he’d just blink, roll his eyes, and say, “Huh. That’s new.” and go back to scrolling e-groceries' list of weekly available promos.

.

But the rest of the world?

Oh, they ran with it.

Because how else were they supposed to describe him?

A hunter? Too small.
A hero? Not quite right.
A god? Okay, now we’re getting dangerously close to the fan forums, and I would like to unsee some things.

So they stuck with what they heard.

.

....maybe Shadow Monarch does sound kinda cool.

I hate that I think that. But here we are.

.

My Horrible Close Encounter With The Cult of Sung Jinwoo™

I shake my head furiously, dragging myself back to the present.

Enough. I don’t need to think about this. I don’t need to think about this.

I just need to leave before the universe throws another Sung Jinwoo Appreciation Montage in my face.

But the second I turn, I walk straight into the worst-case scenario.

A crowd. Talking. About him.

Oh no.

I freeze. I should keep walking. I should leave. But like a complete idiot, I accidentally tune in.

And I immediately regret it.

“He’s not human.”

.

I blink. Excuse me?

A man shakes his head as he stares at the massive LED screen, where Oppa is currently tearing apart something monstrous in glorious high definition.

“You saw what he did to that Dragon King,” he mutters, his voice hushed with something dangerously close to awe. “That wasn’t a fight. That was…” He trails off, struggling to find the words.

A woman beside him—who is absolutely about to say something unhinged—places a hand over her heart. “An execution,” she whispers. “Like a god delivering divine punishment.”

My soul attempts to leave my body.

NO. STOP THAT.

Another woman clutches her chest as if she’s having a spiritual awakening. “I’ll never forget the day he saved us,” she breathes.

Her companion nods rapidly, like she’s about to start a full-on testimony. “He stood right in front of the portal, and then those shadow soldiers appeared. Thousands of them.”

“Shadow soldiers…” the other woman shivers. “I heard they bow to him like he’s some kind of king.”

“He is a king.”

“More like a god.”

I roll my eyes so hard I see my past life.

I don’t even know what irritates me more—their delusional reverence or the fact that they’re not entirely wrong. The shadows do bow to him. Heck, even Beru still calls him ‘my liege’ like we’re stuck in some medieval drama.

.

A man nearby speaks up, his voice low but buzzing with awe.

"I saw him LIVE during the battle with Antares. He was flying."

Another guy turns, eyes wide. “Flying?”

“I’m serious. Him and the Dragon Monarch—it was like watching two gods fight over the world. He wasn’t even human anymore.”

A woman clasps her hands together like she’s about to burst into tears. "My grandma said she prayed to him that day. Said he’s the reason we’re still alive."

.

More voices pile in.

“Look at him! Did you see that? He just… appeared in the middle of the sky.”

"I read somewhere he’s faster than light. They say he can be anywhere in the world within seconds."

A man shakes his head in awed disbelief. “You can’t tell me that’s just a hunter. That’s a god. The Shadow Monarch saved the entire planet.”

“Monarch? Sounds like a king. Does anyone know what he actually is?”

“No one knows,” another replies. “All I know is that he’s not human anymore.”

I inhale sharply, my pulse quickening.

I’m not sure what disturbs me more—the fact that people are openly speculating about whether my brother is an eldritch entity, or that they genuinely believe he has transcended human existence.

I mean—where do I even start correcting them? Because every single thing they’re saying is wrong.

WRONG.

"Do you think he sleeps?" someone asks in a hushed tone.

I snort. Oh, he sleeps, alright. Sometimes in the middle of the day. Sometimes on the couch. Sometimes with his head half-buried in a pillow, drooling like a toddler.

I suppress a laugh.

There is nothing godlike about the way he snores after a particularly exhausting day.

But I can’t say that aloud.

They wouldn’t believe me even if I did. I have started to give up convincing people.

A younger man in the crowd crosses his arms, frowning slightly. “I dunno. It’s kinda freaky, right? All that power in one person’s hands… You ever wonder what’s going on in his head?”

“You mean like if he has secret plans to take over the world?” his friend jokes nervously.

The man doesn’t laugh.

“No, I mean… Look, I’m grateful and all. He saved my family when the portals opened near Busan. But sometimes it’s hard to wrap my head around. He’s got enough power to do whatever he wants, and yet he doesn’t ask for anything in return. That’s what scares me.

People like that—people who don’t ask for anything—are the ones you have to watch out for.”

I stiffen.

The words cut deeper than I expect.

I hate how easily they get under my skin.

Because it’s true—**Oppa never asks for anything.

Not money. Not recognition. Not power.

He just shows up. He saves people. He leaves.

But it’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s not because he thinks he’s above it all. It’s because he doesn’t want to be worshipped. He doesn’t want to be dragged into the circus of expectations that come with being The Savior of Humanity™.

He doesn’t want people to put him on a pedestal.

And yet—

Here they are, doing exactly that.

I, on the other hand, am about two seconds away from passing out.

“Oh, I know,” someone else gasps, voice trembling. “That’s the part that really gets me. If he had demanded something—anything—we would have given it to him. The world would have bowed. But instead, he just…”

She gestures helplessly at the screen, where Oppa is currently moving through the battlefield like something out of legend—silent, untouchable, more force of nature than man. 

(...Stupid Oppa. Not really helping your case there.)

“…he just went back to work.”

I slap both hands over my face.

I cannot be here.

I physically cannot be here.

But it’s too late. The conversation is spiraling.

Someone else jumps in, wild-eyed like he just unlocked the secrets of the universe. “You ever notice? He doesn’t age. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t even get tired.”

I choke.

DOESN’T EAT???

I have personally watched this man demolish an entire barbecue set meant for ten people and still have room for ramen.

“Oh my god, I know,” another woman whispers, visibly shaking. “And his shadows—have you seen it? They move. Like they're alive.”

“Because they are,” someone else says grimly. “They follow him like they worship him.”

A deep, contemplative silence falls over the group.

Then, in a voice full of genuine dread, someone finally says it:

“…What if he’s not one of us?”

My lungs stop working.

A woman clutches her chest. “I read a theory that he was never really human. That Sung Jinwoo-ssi.. was always meant to be the Shadow Monarch.”

Oh, for the love of—

I don’t wait to hear the rest. I turn and bolt like my life depends on it.

I don’t stop moving until I’m at least four blocks away, gasping like I just survived a horror movie.

Then, after a full ten seconds of stunned, horrified silence, I drag my hands down my face and let out a slow, exhausted groan.

This is so much worse than I thought.

The world doesn’t just admire Oppa.

They are one bad prophecy away from starting a full-blown religion.

...

No. Wait.

They actually did.

I slow to a stop.

Not because I want to. Because my brain refuses to process what I’m looking at.

A small crowd is gathered near a temple.

An actual, honest-to-God temple.

At first, I think it’s just a normal religious service. You know, the kind that has absolutely nothing to do with my dearest older brother.

Until I hear the words.

"Lord Sung Jinwoo delivered us from destruction!"

I choke on air.

No. No, no, no.

The man speaking is wearing robes. He’s holding a microphone. His voice booms through the small square, full of the kind of reverence and conviction that only comes with people who have fully lost their minds.

"He stood as our shield against the Monarchs!" he cries. "He brought light to the darkness!"

My jaw drops.

OH, HELL NO.

The crowd hums in agreement, their hands clasped, their eyes shining with actual devotion.

"We honor him not as a god," the man continues, "but as a protector of humanity. May his shadow always watch over us!"

May his what now?

I clutch my forehead, already fighting the urge to walk over there and yell at them.

I want to scream. I want to grab these people by the shoulders and shake them.

I want to stand on a chair and announce to this entire deranged congregation:

"He’s just my brother, you weirdos! He doesn’t even like talking to reporters, let alone leading some shadow cult!"

But I don’t.

Because I know better --also because I really don’t want to see tomorrow’s headlines screaming, ‘Sung Jinwoo’s Deranged Little Sister Goes Feral on Local Cult Leader.’

Because this is what happens when the entire world watches a man single-handedly prevent planetary extinction, doesn’t ask for anything in return, and then just casually goes back to work like it was a Tuesday.

People start losing their goddamn minds.

I take a slow, deep breath.

.

Jinah vs. The Sung Jinwoo Fangirl Apocalypse (A Psychological Horror Experience)

The entire scene leaves a bitter, rancid, soul-crushing taste in my mouth.

So I duck into the nearest convenience store, desperate for five minutes of sanity, peace, normalcy, and an environment where people are not actively worshipping my older brother like he’s the Second Coming.

The cool air hits me, carrying the faint, comforting smell of instant ramen, plastic-wrapped sandwiches, and bad life decisions. This is safe. This is normal.

I exhale, wandering the aisles, staring blankly at rows of potato chips and overpriced energy drinks. Something mundane. Something that doesn’t remind me that Oppa has accidentally spawned a religion.

And for a blissful, fleeting second, I think I’ve finally found a place where his influence doesn’t exist.

But then—

"Did you see that new documentary about the Antares fight?"

I freeze.

Oh, for the love of—

Near the counter, a group of teenagers are chatting excitedly. Loudly. Their voices cut through the quiet hum of the store’s background music like a knife.

I tell myself to ignore them. I tell myself to keep walking.

And then I hear—

“It’s insane. The way Sung Jinwoo moved—like, he wasn’t even human.”

My soul leaves my body.

“Oh my god, yes,” another girl gushes. “And that one part where the camera zoomed in on his face—his eyes were glowing. I swear, he looked like some kind of god.”

A dreamy sigh.

“Do you think he ever gets scared? I mean, he’s so powerful… I can’t imagine anything could ever hurt him.”

WHAT.

Another voice, utterly confident: “Doubt it. He’s probably invincible by now. The Shadow Monarch, right? It’s like he’s not even one of us anymore.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

They’re not just talking about Oppa.

They are fangirling.

I slowly, mechanically, turn my head toward the group.

There are three girls, all positively glowing with excitement, their hands clasped together like they’re discussing their favorite K-drama lead.

One of them actually blushes.

“I mean, have you seen the footage of him standing on that skyscraper? The wind was blowing his coat back. I swear, I almost passed out.”

“I know, right?” The second girl clutches her chest. “And when he turns his head slowly before a fight? Chills. Literal chills.”

The third girl looks ready to scream into a pillow. “And don’t even get me started on his hands. Have you seen them? Have you? The camera caught him holding a dagger once, and I swear, his fingers—”

I clap my hands over my ears.

NOPE. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

I came in here for a break. A moment of peace. Not to discover that teenage girls are thirsting over my brother’s hands.

I back away. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’ve stumbled across a nest of vipers.

I am not mentally strong enough for this.

I turn.

I take one step.

And then—

The final, nuclear-grade atrocity.

“…But have you seen his ass?”

I black out.

Not literally, but I wish I did.

I stumble. I physically stumble. I grab the edge of a display of convenience store plushies like a person experiencing a full-body crisis.

“PERFECTLY SCULPTED.”

“A WORK OF ART.”

“LIKE HE WAS CRAFTED BY THE GODS THEMSELVES.”

I think I’m going to throw up.

The worst part?

I can’t even argue.

I mean—yes, Oppa is stupidly athletic, but that is not the point.

I should not be here.
I should not be hearing this.
I should not be witnessing a full-blown dissertation on Sung Jinwoo’s rear-end.

And then—THEN—

One of them, one of these unholy gremlins in human skin, breathes out a sentence so vile, so cursed, that I am in actual, physical danger of astral projecting out of my own body.

“…I’d let him step on me.”

My entire nervous system malfunctions.

The lights flicker. Somewhere, a dog starts barking. The very fabric of reality begins to collapse around me.

I make a strangled, wheezing sound that no human vocal cords should be able to produce.

And then—

They notice.

One of the girls turns toward me—big, sparkling eyes, cheeks flushed, practically vibrating with unholy enthusiasm, still riding some kind of deranged high from whatever forbidden fantasy she just conjured up in the deepest pits of her mind.

She sees my completely ruined, emotionally devastated, spiritually shattered expression.

And then, with an angelic, innocent, nightmarishly cheerful smile, she tilts her head and asks,

“Oh! Are you a Sung Jinwoo fan too?”

I do not get a chance to answer.

Because she’s already gushing, full throttle, zero brakes, maximum insanity.

“He’s just sooo… hot, right? And sooo dreamy, and sooo absolutely, mind-numbingly, panty-droppingly f—”

.

But the final nail in my sanity’s coffin?

It happens when I pass by a group of Spanish-speaking tourists.

They’re chatting excitedly—showing each other photos of Seoul, pointing at the streets like they’re walking through a legendary battleground.

A young woman clutches her phone, voice breathless.

“Imagínate... simplemente caminando por la calle… y lo ves pasar.” (Imagine… just walking down the street… and you see him pass by.)

Her friend immediately grabs her arm, her whole body physically rejecting the idea.

“No digas eso, me muero aquí mismo.” (Don’t say that, I’d die right here.)

A third girl clutches her chest, fully overwhelmed, voice trembling.

“Lo siento, pero si lo viera en persona, empezaría a llorar. Simplemente caería de rodillas.” (I’m sorry, but if I saw him in person, I’d start crying. I’d just fall to my knees.)

I make the worst mistake of my life.

I accidentally make eye contact.

And the first girl—the emotional one, the one who is already trembling at the mere thought of seeing Oppa—turns to me and blurts out,

“¿Eres coreana?” (Are you Korean?)

I freeze.

My survival instincts scream at me to flee.

But she’s already grabbing my hands, shaking with desperate hope, eyes sparkling with borderline religious fervor.

“¿Has visto a Sung Jinwoo antes?” (Have you seen Sung Jinwoo before?)

Oh my god.

I yank my hands away, spin on my heel, and speedwalk out of there like my life depends on it.

And then.

Just when I think it’s over.

Just when I think I can finally extract myself from this international pilgrimage of madness, when I think I can finally breathe, when I think I have escaped the clutches of Sung Jinwoo Fangirl Psychosis™—

A loud, enthusiastic voice cuts through the noise.

“Oh, man, no way—you guys are Sung Jinwoo fans too?!”

NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

I do not turn around.

I already know.

I already know exactly what’s happening, because I have lived far too long in this world to not recognize the incoming tsunami of American tourist energy.

And sure enough—

There he is.

A very American tourist, hyping up a brand-new group, waving his phone around like a preacher spreading the gospel.

And on the screen?

A Sung Jinwoo vs. Antares compilation, edited to dramatic music, probably uploaded by some power-scaling lunatic on the internet.

He gestures wildly to the gathered group, absolutely vibrating with enthusiasm.

“Dude, Thomas Andre is my guy, but after seeing Jinwoo fight?? Bro. That dude is built DIFFERENT.”

Someone beside him nods so aggressively I’m genuinely concerned he’s about to dislocate something.

“Right?! Andre’s a beast, but Jinwoo solo’d the King of Dragons. Like—who even does that?!”

Another voice jumps in, equally passionate.

“No, but think about it. Andre punches things so hard the air explodes. Jinwoo literally erased a dragon the size of a skyscraper. They’re like… two different flavors of OH SHIT.”

The first guy gasps, like he’s just been struck by divine revelation.

“Dude. Imagine them in a tag-team fight.”

Silence.

Tension.

And then—

A collective inhale of pure, unfiltered American hype.

“That would be the most disrespectful battle of all time.”

“An absolute violation.”

A fourth guy—who has **clearly been waiting for this exact conversation his entire life—**clutches his chest with both hands, voice trembling with raw emotion.

“Bro. Thomas Andre and Sung Jinwoo on the same team?”

His voice shakes.

His entire soul ascends.

“Humanity would never lose.”

“Literal raid bosses.”

“Final boss energy.”

“My kings.”

I sprint out of there before I hear the words ‘Jinwoo supremacy.’

.

I am a fool.

—to believe that maybe, just maybe, I have finally escaped the swirling vortex of mass hysteria that follows my brother’s name like a never-ending storm.

But then.

As I pass by yet another outdoor café, a voice drifts into the air, soft but weighted, carrying words that send a familiar slow, sinking dread curling into my stomach.

"That time when he saved London," a woman—probably a British tourist—leans forward, her tone hushed yet brimming with the dramatic flair of someone about to unveil classified government secrets.

"Closed the portal before it even broke. Imagine being that powerful."

She exhales, shaking her head in pure, unfiltered awe.

“It’s like he’s on another plane of existence.”

No, no, WRONG.

Oppa is not on a different plane of existence.

Oppa is down-to-earth in the worst way possible.

He is the same socially-inept menace who once vanished mid-interview because he physically could not handle reporters.

The same man who tried to escape out the back door when Mom made him attend a community event, only to get caught in 4K because Beru enthusiastically saluted him at full volume.

And yet—here she is.

Speaking about him like he is some interdimensional deity, like he is omnipotent, like he is unknowable—

Like he is not a man who struggles with figuring out tax deductions and once forgot his own email password.

.

I speed up my pace, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and whatever eldritch gospel is being spread about my brother.

But then—

The café TV screen.

.

More tourists sit beneath glowing string lights, their faces illuminated by the flickering blue of the live news broadcast. The air is warm, rich with the scent of roasted coffee beans and sizzling street food, but none of them seem to notice.

Because all eyes are locked on the screen.

The anchor’s voice is smooth, professional, but beneath the neutrality, there’s something else. Something weighty.

"Our correspondent reports that Sung Jinwoo recently intervened in a high-risk dungeon break in Cairo, preventing the deaths of thousands. This marks the 54th international intervention by the Shadow Monarch this year alone."

I stop mid-step.

My stomach plummets.

Fifty-four.

Fifty-four disasters.
Fifty-four crises averted.
Fifty-four times he’s shadow-teleported into catastrophe, wiped out monsters, saved people, and left before anyone could even thank him.

My brain struggles to process the number.

Fifty-four times.

And it’s only February.

But I barely have time to swallow the sheer, soul-crushing weight of that realization before someone at the café—a middle-aged man with the aura of someone who has Opinions™—leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"Hunters are one thing," he muses, voice contemplative, "but he’s like the world’s guardian angel. Can you imagine having that kind of responsibility?"

A younger guy, probably a university student, lets out a bewildered laugh.

"Yeah. Imagine being the guy who saves the world and still gets no sleep."

An older woman stirs her coffee, her eyes distant, thoughtful.

"You think he even can sleep?"

The first guy hums, mulling it over like they’re discussing philosophical riddles instead of a very real human being who just happens to be freakishly powerful.

"Maybe he doesn’t need to," he says at last, tilting his head. "Maybe he’s beyond that now."

I clutch my forehead.

I briefly consider walking into traffic.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN BEYOND SLEEP.

HE TOOK A NAP ON THE COUCH TWO DAYS AGO.

But no—they are all nodding like this is a reasonable thing to say. Like this is common knowledge.

As if Oppa has transcended mortal needs. As if he absorbs energy from the void instead of living off convenience store kimbap and whatever Mom makes him eat.

My hands twitch at my sides. I want to grab them. I want to shake them. I want to stand on a chair and scream:

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE WAS DOING LAST NIGHT? HE WAS SITTING ON THE FLOOR, SCROLLING THROUGH HIS PHONE, TRYING TO BUY SOAP. SOAP. HE FOLLOWED A BRAND ACCOUNT FOR A GIVEAWAY. HE CAN’T BE BEYOND SLEEP BECAUSE HE IS LITERALLY STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT ONLINE SHOPPING."

But instead, I just stand there.

Motionless. Expressionless. Watching as the world continues spinning wildly off its axis, drunk on its own Sung Jinwoo-induced delusions.

Because of course.

Of course the Cairo thing happened.

OF COURSE Oppa saved an entire city in the most cinematic, world-ending, reality-shattering way possible.

Just in time.

Just in time to make my life worse.

.

I swear to God, Oppa has a sixth sense for the absolute worst timing.

Right when I’m knee-deep in cultists, fangirls, international shrine pilgrimages, and Americans forming a raid boss tier list—

BOOM.

News reports of Sung Jinwoo casually preventing a disaster in another country.

Like clockwork.

Like it’s scripted.

Like he’s sitting there, eating a bowl of ramen, checking the time and going—

"Huh. Jinah’s day seems too normal. Let me fix that."

.

I drag my hands down my face, groaning into my palms.

I just—I can’t do this.

I keep walking.

The streets of Seoul pulse with life, same as they always do. Cars blare their horns, weaving impatiently through gridlocked lanes. Street vendors call out their prices, their voices mixing with the chatter of pedestrians drifting past, the normal, everyday hum of a city moving forward.

It’s normal.

It’s so achingly, painfully normal.

And yet, I feel like I’m somewhere else entirely.

Like I’m watching the world through glass, hearing everything but feeling none of it, because all I can hear—all I can hear—

Are the voices from before, circling in my head like ghosts I can’t shake.

"The Shadow Monarch is watching over us."
"Can you imagine walking down the street and just seeing him? I’d literally fall to my knees."
"He’s the strongest being on the planet. Who else could erase Antares like that?"
"Jinwoo supremacy. Final boss energy. Humanity’s ultimate raid boss."

And then—

The words that won’t stop echoing in my head.

The ones that won’t let me go.

"He’s not one of us anymore."

"Maybe he never was."

Something cold and awful sinks deep into my stomach.

A creeping, suffocating realization I don’t want to name.

Hero worship isn’t new.

I’ve seen it before, heard it before, felt the weight of it lingering in the way people talk about S-Rank hunters.

But this—

This is something else.

This isn’t just admiration, isn’t just respect, isn’t even the usual celebrity worship.

This is something bigger.

Something vast and unrelenting and completely out of control.

I don’t think a single person I overheard today ever spoke about him like he was real. Not once.

They talk about the Shadow Monarch, the force of nature, the legend, the savior who steps out of the abyss and bends darkness to his will. They speak his name like he’s something distant and untouchable, some ethereal presence that moves outside the realm of ordinary people.

They dissect his actions, his habits, his power—but never his exhaustion, his scars, his quiet moments.

Never the fact that he still comes home, still sits at our tiny dinner table like none of this ever happened, still picks up his chopsticks even when his hands shake from overuse, still listens to me complain about my classes like the world isn’t actively collapsing onto his shoulders.

They don’t talk about the actual Sung Jinwoo.

Not the guy who steals the last yogurt from the fridge and acts surprised when I catch him.
Not the guy who forgets to set alarms and has to shadow-exchange across the city to avoid being late.
Not the guy who struggles with chopsticks when he’s exhausted.
Not the guy who once burned instant ramen.

They don’t want him to be that.

They don’t want him to be real.

They want him to be larger than life, something unbreakable, something untouchable.

And the more he saves them—

The more they push him higher.

Further.

Out of reach.

Until they can’t see the person anymore.

Until there’s nothing left but the myth.

I exhale, long and slow, staring ahead at nothing in particular, trying to shake the unbearable weight pressing against my ribs.

Because I know the truth.

I know Oppa.

I know the ridiculous older brother who flicks my forehead when I annoy him, who laughs at Jin-Ho’s dumb jokes even when they’re objectively terrible, who forgets his phone in the bathroom and spends twenty minutes looking for it.

I know him better than anyone.

But I can’t help but wonder—

Does the rest of the world?

Or have they already forgotten?

.

Will I?

.

I stop walking.

For a second, I feel like I can’t breathe.

Like something heavy is crushing my chest, but I don’t know what, I don’t want to know what, because if I name it, if I let myself think too hard about it, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to shake it off.

.

Oh.

So that’s what this feeling is.

This weird, awful heaviness that’s been sitting in my chest all day, getting worse every time someone opened their mouth.

A grief I don’t know how to place.

A loss I don’t know how to name.

A quiet, awful fear I don’t want to admit.

Yeah.

Love that for me.

.

.

.

I thought nothing could be worse than the worship. But there is. There’s something so much worse. And I’m about to see it. The ones who demand even more. The ones who say he has not done enough. The ones who believe that because they have suffered, he must suffer too.

Because a man who saves without asking for payment, who wields power without using it to rule, who does the right thing simply because no one else will—he is something this world cannot comprehend. Not in a place where hunters kill each other for power, where S-Ranks demand fortunes before they lift a single finger, where leaders scheme and manipulate to gain control over things they do not understand.

To Be Continued

PART II - Two Sides of the Same Coin: The Cold God of Shadows

Chapter Text

PART II - Two Sides of the Same Coin: The Cold God of Shadows

From ‘Thank You’ to ‘Actually, Maybe This Is Your Fault’: The Sung Jinwoo PR Disaster and My Unpaid Therapy Arc

See, I have been through absolute bullshit.

When your dearest elder brother is Oppa, the Literal Shadow Monarch™, there are moments in life where you either laugh hysterically or start screaming until they sedate you and slap a straitjacket on.

Right now, I am standing dead center in one of those moments.

Because I have seen things.

Things no rational human being should ever have to process.

Things that, if I ever said out loud in a normal setting, would immediately have me locked in a padded room for stress-induced psychosis.

How else am I supposed to react when I have personally witnessed grown, financially stable, Rolex-wearing businessmen—men with mortgages, men with MBAs, men who probably close million-dollar deals over steak dinners—kneeling in front of Sung Jinwoo-themed merchandise, heads bowed like a single limited-edition action figure is about to cleanse their capitalist sins and fix their credit scores?

How do I even begin to process the sheer absurdity of watching two middle-aged Korean aunties nearly throw hands in the middle of a grocery store because they could not agree on whether “The Shadow Monarch” or “The Savior of Humanity” was the correct divine title for my brother?

And please—how do I emotionally recover from watching a man propose—yes, propose—to a Sung Jinwoo statue?

On video.

With a ring.

In front of an entire audience of horrified but strangely fascinated onlookers.

(I regret to inform you that the video went viral.)

And perhaps the most damning, the most sanity-breaking moment of all—(yeah.. I keep saying this then another thing will happen again like a goddamn jinx):

I have watched six separate foreign tourists burst into tears in front of a Sung Jinwoo mural, their hands clutching their chests, their faces contorted in pure, ugly-crying, religious-level ecstasy, looking like they had been personally blessed by his divine presence.

Except he wasn’t even there.

It was a painting.

A. Painting.

Meanwhile, the man himself?

Blissfully unaware.

Oblivious. Completely, utterly, painfully oblivious.

Because Oppa—dear, sweet, reality-ignoring Oppa—probably has absolutely no idea that any of this is happening.

Why?

Because he does not understand how social media works.
Because he barely goes outside unless the world is literally on fire—which often happens before breakfast.
Because his idea of “keeping a low profile” is throwing on a hoodie and hoping for the best.

And of course—the whole “I'm too busy working” thing.

Which, in Sung Jinwoo terms, means teleporting across the world, yeeting apocalyptic monsters into oblivion, and then immediately disappearing to whatever shadow realm he has like a socially anxious cryptid before anyone can make eye contact.

A literal god-tier hunter, casually wiping out global threats for zero pay, zero recognition, and zero interest in staying for a thank-you speech.

If avoiding social interaction was a sport, my brother would have single-handedly invented it and remained the undefeated champion.

.

So that leaves me.

His fabulous, very social, incredibly hilarious, and currently deteriorating younger sister.

The only person in this family forced to live in the intersection of “Sung Jinwoo’s Reluctant PR Manager” and “Unpaid Therapist to a World That Can’t Emotionally Process My Brother’s Existence.”

At this point, I am a prime candidate for at least five different psychiatric case studies.

But you know what?

I have adapted.

I have accepted that my reality will never be normal again.

So, like a fool, I expect more of the same.

More grown adults treating my brother like a walking deity.
More horrifyingly detailed and personally-invasive.... fan arts that I will never recover from.
More people bursting into religious fervor just because he happened to breathe in their general direction.

I am prepared for this.

I have mentally fortified my defenses.

.

What I am not prepared for is what happens next.

Because it’s always been there.

The paranoia. The fear. The world’s discomfort with the fact that there is a man walking among them who could erase entire nations if he ever decided to stop holding back.

They don’t talk about it openly—not yet.

But I’ve seen the way it lingers in the background, bubbling under the surface, festering in the corners of every discussion about him.

.

There are some things I wish I could unhear. Some thoughts that, once spoken out loud, settle in your brain like a splinter—impossible to ignore, impossible to remove.

The world may call him the savior now, but I can feel it—the shift, the hesitation, the way their voices lower when they talk about him, the way admiration curdles into something else.

It’s not if they’ll turn on him.

It’s when.

And I am five seconds away from an existential crisis so severe they’re going to have to peel me off the pavement.

.

It starts subtly.

I almost don’t hear it.

My brain is still recovering from the psychological trauma of overhearing an American tourist ask, in complete seriousness, if Sung Jinwoo actually needs to sleep like a normal person.

(Like??? What do you think he is?? A cryptid?? Actually, don’t answer that. There’s probably a forum debating it right now.)

But then—

"He should’ve been there."

I barely register it at first.

It’s just another passing comment, another voice lost in the endless noise of Seoul—honking cars, street vendors shouting, the general chaos of a city that never stops moving.

"Why did he let this happen?"

My steps slow.

Not because I think it has anything to do with me. Or Oppa.

Honestly? I assume it’s just some poor guy venting about his friend bailing on plans. Maybe some office worker whose boss dumped extra work on them at the last minute. Or, more likely, some guy who forgot to turn off the rice cooker and is now grappling with the consequences of his own hubris.

It happens.

I almost keep walking.

But then—

"Where was he when we needed him?"

And this time, the voice isn’t annoyed.

It isn’t angry.

It’s something worse.

Something grieving.

And when I finally turn my head, I realize—they’re not talking about a flakey friend or a ruined dinner.

They’re talking about him.

A woman, standing frozen, at the side of a café-bar, in front of one of the many Monarchs’ War memorial boards—one of those grim, makeshift walls of loss—plastered with faded photographs, handwritten letters, dried flowers tucked between the edges of taped-up names. A collage of grief, right there on the brick wall, catching the light of the neon beer signs like it’s just another piece of the scenery.

She’s gripping a photo so tightly it’s crumpling in her hands.

I don’t need to see it.

I already know.

The stupidest, most self-preserving part of my brain screams at me to leave. To mind my business, to keep walking, to pretend I didn’t hear it.

To not get involved. To not—for the love of god, Sung Jinah, DO NOT emotionally engage.

But do I listen?

No.

Because despite everything, despite knowing exactly where this is going, exactly how this will end, I look.

.

The photo is worn.

The edges curled, soft from being held too much.
The ink smudged, stained by time and hands that refuse to let go.

As if, by pressing hard enough, by remembering long enough, by refusing to let go long enough, she can bring him back.

A little boy.

Maybe six. Maybe seven.

Grinning so wide it takes up half his face, one front tooth missing.

Gone.

.

My stomach twists.

Not just because I know what I’m looking at.

Not just because I know, KNOW, there are thousands of these photographs and memorial boards.

Tens of thousands.

Not just here in Seoul--the world is littered with them.

Tucked into wallets, pinned to bulletin boards, pressed between hands that shake under the unbearable weight of loss.

Not just because I know they belong to the people hunters couldn’t save, however powerful or organized they are.

But because I know something worse.

Something that makes me want to laugh until I choke or start screaming until someone locks me in a padded room and throws away the key.

.

The thing is…

The world refuses to believe that there was ever anything beyond Oppa’s power.

Oppa? He’s practical. Utterly so. 

He doesn’t think like a hero. He never has. He doesn’t sit up at night cursing himself for not saving everyone, because he’s never been arrogant enough to think he could.

There are other hunters.
There are other guilds, other countries, entire governments responsible for their people.

Sung Jinwoo just did what he could.

That’s it. That’s all he did.

But that isn’t the story the world tells itself.

Because when other hunters fail—when they run, when they hesitate, when they lose—it’s a tragedy. A failure of the system. A failure of humanity.

But when Sung Jinwoo isn’t there?

When the other hunters and their governments aren’t there?

It’s his fault.

.

A dungeon breaks? Where was he?
Casualties in a city he’s never even set foot in? Why didn’t he stop it?
A natural disaster, an accident, a war—Why didn’t he save them?

Where was he? WHERE WAS HE?

Oh gee, I don’t know.

Maybe stop and consider he’s currently 40,000 kilometers away, solo-clearing a potential dungeon break that no one bothered to report until the entire city was on fire??

Maybe you’ll have to take a number and wait your turn on the 1-800-SHADOW-MONARCH Emergency Hotline, because congratulations—you are caller number 67 in a global queue of apocalyptic-level crises.

I’ve heard enough snippets of this garbage before, usually right before Mom scrambles to change the channel to something that won’t make me want to punch a hole through the TV.

It’s always the same story.

Because it’s easier.

It’s easier to believe that the Shadow Monarch, the Eldritch Ruler of Death, the Abyssal King of a Thousand Soldiers, could have stopped this if he’d only chosen to.

A scoff cuts through the silence behind me.

"What, you thought he actually cares?"

The bite comes from behind me, too loud, too casual, like someone critiquing a bad sports play instead of dismissing a grieving mother.

Something in my brain short-circuits.

My grip on my sleeves tightens until my nails dig into my palms.

.

Oh.

Oh, it’s gonna be one of those nights.

My grip on my sleeves tightens until my nails bite into my palms. I force myself to turn my head. Not because I want to—oh, hell no—but because I already know exactly what kind of human-shaped disappointment I’m about to see.

And, wow, what a shocking lack of surprises.

A group of half-drunk hunters are sprawled out at a patio table, jackets slung over their chairs, drinks in their hands, radiating the powerful aura of men who have never contributed anything useful to the world but still think they have the authority to judge it.

Not S-Rank. Not even the impressive kind. But high-ranked enough that they think it makes them better than everyone else. 

They’re lounging—because of course they are—completely at ease, completely unbothered, completely comfortable talking shit about the only reason they’re still alive.One of them, the one with the beer swirling in his hand like he’s about to say something truly groundbreaking, sighs through his nose.

"People are so stupid," he mutters, shaking his head, like he’s just heard that gravity is real and is personally offended by it.

His friend snorts, taking a lazy sip of his drink. "They act like he’s some all-seeing god. Like he’s supposed to be everywhere at once."

Hmm, kinda agree with some points but they're still dumbasses. Fantastic.

"Yeah, well, he plays god, doesn’t he?" another sneers, leaning back like he’s about to drop the hottest take of the century. "Deciding who lives, who dies. Picking and choosing his battles. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here actually risking our lives, but no—Shadow Monarch Sung Jin-Woo swoops in from the sky and acts like he’s the only one that matters."

…

My brain buffers.

Then crashes.

I physically feel the logic in my skull attempt to reboot itself before deciding, nah, f* this, I’m out.**

HE. PICKS. AND CHOOSES. HIS BATTLES.

Hello? 911? Yes, I’d like to report a murder, because if I have to listen to one more microbe with a superiority complex act like my brother hasn’t been literally running himself into the ground to keep this planet from being vaporized, I will commit an actual felony.

The sickness creeps up slow, like tar in my throat.

Because, the thing is—

I know what my brother is.

The rest of the world gets the polished, post-apocalyptic messiah version of him. They see the unkillable god of death, the living shadow, the savior who swoops in, solves their problems, and vanishes before they can say thanks. They don’t see him on the couch at 3 AM, dead-eyed, staring at a half-eaten cup of ramen like it personally betrayed him.

They don’t see the bruises that don’t fade, the exhaustion he thinks no one notices, the way he never, ever stops.

They don’t see the part of him that still flinches at hospitals.

They don’t see the part of him that remembers what it’s like to be an E-rank with nothing but debt and desperation and a body too weak to protect anyone.

And these men—these clowns—these sentient participation trophies—have the actual balls to sit here, drink overpriced beer, and whine that Sung Jinwoo, the only reason we are all still breathing air right now, isn’t doing enough?

I exhale slowly.

Maybe I should leave.

Maybe I should do the smart thing. The responsible thing.

Maybe—

"Yeah," I hear myself say, stepping forward, voice deceptively light. "You’re right. My bad. He should probably start letting more people die. That’d be more fair, huh?"

The table goes silent.

I smile, all teeth.

Oh, we’re so doing this.

.

Across from me, one of the hunters—mid-30s, a face that screams “I peaked in high school,” a drink half-raised like he was about to say something truly profound—blinks. Like his last two functioning brain cells are struggling to process what just happened.

The others aren’t much better. One guy has a hand on his drink like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment. Another just stares, eyes flicking between me and his friends, waiting for someone else to do something first.

Finally, the one with the loudest mouth—the one who started this whole conversation like he was about to drop some galaxy-brain revelation about my brother—leans forward, his chair creaking under his weight.

"Little girl shouldn’t mess with things she doesn’t understand."

Oh.

Oh.

See, this is where a rational person would back off. This is where a normal human being with a functioning survival instinct would smile politely and walk away.

But unfortunately for these morons, Oppa's influence has rubbed some on me.

And also—I am pissed.

Because, let’s get one thing straight.

I was born into this madness.

I have spent my entire year watching my brother break himself into smaller and smaller pieces for a world that will either worship him to unhinged height, or will never be satisfied, that will always want more, that will always look at him and say, Why didn’t you do more? Why weren’t you here? Why didn’t you save them?

These men?

These sentient cardboard cutouts?

They don’t know a damn thing.

And my shadows—the ones I’m not supposed to have, the ones that shouldn’t exist, the ones that only stir when I get too close to something Oppa wouldn’t want me near—

They know it too.

Something shifts at my feet.

The air grows heavier.

The bar lights flicker—just for a second.

And I take one slow, deliberate step forward.

"Maybe," I say, voice light, calm, almost gentle—maybe I did watch too many of Oppa's battle clips. "It’s you who doesn’t know anything."

I feel it before I see it.

The moment everything could tip over into something worse.

The way the hunter’s posture shifts, his fingers twitching toward his glass.

He wouldn’t.

He would.

I don’t even have time to decide whether I should start throwing hands when—

"That’s enough."

A new voice cuts through the tension, steady, unimpressed, bored in the way only someone who has seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times can be.

I glance over, and the barista is already moving.

Middle-aged, built like a retired boxer, gaze flicking between me and the hunters with the kind of calm exhaustion only people in customer service seem to master.

"She’s a kid," he says flatly, like this entire situation isn’t worth the effort of raising his voice. "And you’re drunk. Walk away."

The loudmouth scoffs, shifting like he’s about to protest—but something stops him.

Maybe it’s the barista’s unimpressed stare.

Maybe it’s the fact that the other customers are now very clearly watching.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the way the shadows under my feet haven’t quite settled yet.

He clicks his tongue, grabs his drink, and leans back.

"Whatever."

.

I let out a slow breath.

Not relief. Not really.

Just… waiting.

Waiting for the moment to pass.

Waiting for my shadows to settle.

Waiting for the fact that I was half a second away from seeing if I could get into a bar fight before my brother did to actually sink in.

.

Breaking: Shadow Monarch Fails to Be in 50 Places at Once, World Outraged

The video starts.

And wow, would you look at that—sad music.

Of course. Because what’s a public execution without a little emotional manipulation?

The woman in the video is crying, the camera perfectly capturing the single tear rolling down her face in tragic 4K resolution. The shot lingers—cinematic, dramatic, like we’re about to get an Oscar-worthy monologue.

And then she says it. Again.

"Where was he?"

The violin music swells.

A slow, absolutely unnecessary (how is youtube allowing this) horrific zoom into the  body in her arms. A child, gone too soon.

Then, montage time.

Because why just be sad when you can emotionally traumatize and devastate an entire audience?

We get clips of Sung Jinwoo saving people—the heroic slow-motion shots, the mid-battle stances, the close-ups of him looking brooding and exhausted, probably after teleporting across four different time zones in under ten minutes to stop yet another apocalyptic disaster.

And then, the gut-punch.

A stark, black-and-white overlay:

"But not here."

Oh my god.

I pause the video.

I rub my temples.

I take a deep, suffering breath.

Because it’s happening again.

Like clockwork, like taxes, like boomers arguing about what counts as "real music", people have once again come to the galaxy-brained conclusion that my brother—the guy who physically cannot be in two places at once unless someone figures out how to clone him—is personally responsible for not saving them first.

I scroll down.

The replies are somehow worse.

• "He can teleport. TELEPORT. None of the hunters can do that. How is there any excuse for him not being everywhere?"
• "Shadow Monarch or Selective Savior? 🤔"
• "My cousin’s best friend’s uncle’s co-worker saw him at a café the other day. A WHOLE CAFÉ. Meanwhile, people are dying. What does that tell you?"

…It tells me that he needed a damn coffee.

I keep scrolling, because I hate myself and I thrive on suffering.

• "My family died in a dungeon break last year. He was fighting a disaster in another country at the time. But doesn’t that mean he CHOSE them over us?"

YES. YES, HE DID.

HE CHOSE TO PREVENT A CATACLYSMIC EVENT WHERE THOUSANDS WOULD HAVE DIED INSTEAD OF HUNDREDS.

BECAUSE THAT'S HOW NUMBERS WORK.

I scroll faster, hoping the speed will somehow filter out the stupidity.

It does not.

• "You all don’t get it. It’s not about logic. It’s about fairness. And it’s just… unfair. That he saves some people and not others. That he saved them and not us. How do you live with knowing you weren’t chosen?"

Babe.

You think my brother—Oppa—goes around personally drafting a goddamn SAVE LIST?

Like he sits in a shadowy throne room, reviewing a clipboard of tragedies, sipping tea, thoughtfully going, "Hmm, today, I shall spare the people of Madrid, but let New York burn. Mwahaha."

WHAT.

IS.

THIS.

.

I am in hell.

There is no other explanation.

Because somehow, somehow, Oppa has become the sole, universal scapegoat for every unsolved disaster, every tragic loss, every dungeon break, every bad day humanity has ever collectively suffered.

And what’s worse? Everyone just… accepts it. Like this is normal. Like it’s a totally logical, completely reasonable thing to be doing.

A man literally rearranged the laws of reality just to buy one (1) more year of peace for the entire world, and people repaid him by deciding, "Hey, what if we just blamed him for literally everything ever?"

I doomscroll.

And oh, oh, would you look at that.

We have news panels now.

Because why stop at unhinged Twitter discourse when you can bring in news anchors and "experts" to make it worse?

On-screen, a very serious-looking reporter, suited up and fully committed to the bit, says,

"The real question isn’t whether Sung Jinwoo could have saved them. The real question is why he didn’t."

Oh my god.

The expert they’ve invited onto the show—some guy in glasses who looks like he hasn’t seen sunlight in years—nods gravely and replies,

"It’s a complex issue. The fact remains that he has no official oversight, no regulatory body ensuring equal response across global crises. What does that say about the ethical concerns of unilateral power?"

Unilateral power.

THE MAN IS A PRIVATE CITIZEN.

A PRIVATE CITIZEN WHO, I WOULD LIKE TO REMIND EVERYONE, DID NOT ASK FOR THIS.

They’re acting like my brother signed a contract agreeing to be on-call for every global emergency in existence.

I check the panel of “discussion topics” flashing across the screen.

Oh. Oh no.

The next segment is literally titled:

"Should Sung Jinwoo Be Held Legally Accountable for Selective Heroism?"

I black out for a second.

When I regain consciousness, I immediately regret it.

Because I blink and suddenly there’s a goddamn petition.

A PETITION.

Pinned to the top of the #WhereWasSungJinwoo thread.

It has 80,000 signatures already.

And it’s titled, and I wish I were joking—

"Mandate Global Cooperation from Hunter Sung Jinwoo."

…Excuse me?

MANDATE?

You want to make it a law that my brother has to drop everything, teleport across the world, and clean up your messes whenever you say so?

DO THEY THINK HE'S AN EMPLOYEE?

LIKE HE SHOULD HAVE A 9-TO-5 WORLD-SAVING SHIFT?

I click on the petition details, because clearly, I love pain.

And the first bullet point is:

• "We, the undersigned, believe that the international community should have equal access to Sung Jinwoo’s abilities. His selective interventions demonstrate a pattern of favoritism, and this must be formally addressed through structured cooperation."

Oh, okay.

So we’ve officially reached the "Why isn’t God distributing his miracles fairly?" stage of the discussion.

Cool.

Normal.

I keep reading.

• "Proposed solutions include a rotational system of crisis intervention, or the establishment of a neutral council that can direct his abilities to the most urgent situations."

A neutral council.

A neutral council.

Like, what? A board of directors?

A group of middle-aged bureaucrats sitting in a room somewhere, assigning my brother daily shifts like he’s a government resource?

"Ah yes, today, Sung Jinwoo is scheduled for South America. Tomorrow, he will be handling a situation in Southeast Asia. Please ensure he meets his required intervention quota for the fiscal year."

I am going to throw up.

And then I scroll just a little bit more—

And that’s when I see it.

That’s when I fully lose my mind.

Because someone, somewhere, has compiled a goddamn pie chart.

A visually pleasing, color-coded, statistical breakdown titled:

"Which Countries Receive the Most Sung Jinwoo Interventions?"

THERE IS DATA.

THERE IS A WHOLE-ASS CHART SHOWING THE PERCENTAGES OF HIS INTERVENTIONS BY REGION.

And people are debating it.

.

Like this is a political budget meeting.

Like we’re discussing infrastructure funding instead of a single man using his own free will to help wherever he damn well pleases.

.

There is a literal, actual tier list.

A Sung Jinwoo Favoritism Tier List.

Because apparently, the world hasn’t had enough ranking systems after the Hunters’ tier list.

So, what determines a country’s placement? Dungeon crises? Shadow Monarch sightings? Beru spotted hanging around historical sites? Who knows. But the internet has spoken, and this is the result.

*drum rolls*

S-Rank Countries ("Worthy of Protection”)

Countries where Sung Jinwoo has appeared often. Call it favoritism, call it coincidence—but if he’s shown up more than once, congratulations, you made it.

🇰🇷 Korea – “Home base perks. Y’all get the neighborhood discount.”

🇯🇵 Japan – “Jeju Island Arc + Tokyo’s Giants Invasion = permanent S-rank membership. He’s buddy-buddy with the Japan Hunters Association now.”

🇮🇩 Indonesia – “The Surabaya incident really shot you guys up the rankings, huh? Can’t blame you. It was basically the live-action trailer of why you want Sung Jinwoo insurance for your country.”

🇪🇸 Spain – “One lady said he smelled nice, and now you guys act like you have VIP access. Unreal.”

A-Rank Countries ("Has been saved, but not as frequently")

He’s been there, sure, but not enough to hit S-rank status. You guys are on the watchlist, at least.

🇫🇷 France – “French Twitter is still mad that he hasn’t casually teleported in for a croissant run.”

🇩🇪 Germany – “Lennart Niermann tries his best, okay? Give him some credit.”

🇮🇳 India – “Siddharth Bachchan’s got this. Probably.”

🇬🇧 UK – “Look, if you guys had more dungeon crises, maybe he’d visit more. But do you want that? Also, Sung Jinwoo vs. the UK’s rainy weather. Place your bets. I think he wins.”

🇨🇳 China – “TBF, Liu Zhigang probably handles things pretty well over there, so Jinwoo doesn’t need to show up as often. But the fact that y’all are keeping track like a jealous ex is sending me.”

B-Rank Countries ("Minimal Intervention for Dungeon Breaks")

He’s shown up, but barely. Some of you might have beef with him, some of you just aren’t dramatic enough to warrant his attention. Try harder.

🇺🇸 USA – “Is this ranking because of the Thomas Andre thing?? Y’ALL. THAT WAS LIKE, ONE TIME. It wasn’t even serious beef! My brother literally punched the guy once and now the entire country is in its ‘Jinwoo hates us’ arc.”

🇧🇷 Brazil – “Not forgotten, just… low priority. Sorry. Y’all also got Jonah whats-his-last-name. That guy is giving Oppa a run for his money in being mysterious.”

🇷🇺 Russia – “Oppa’s probably still scared after the Kremlin tried to chase him with the KGB that one time. Y’all really thought you could detain him. Adorable.”

..

E-Rank Countries ("Forgotten by God")

If he’s been here, nobody has proof. Unlucky.

🇱🇺 Luxembourg – “Blink and you’ll miss him. No, literally.”

🇲🇬 Madagascar – “Are you sure he hasn’t been there? Maybe he teleported in and out so fast that y’all just missed it. The man does have the speed stats for it.”

🇱🇮 Liechtenstein – “Probably too small for him to notice. You guys are like an unread notification.”

🇨🇭 Switzerland – “Neutral in wars, neutral in Sung Jinwoo sightings.”

YOU GUYS.

YOU CAN’T JUST MAKE A SUNG JINWOO FAVORITISM TIER LIST.

Like Oppa's some kind of gacha unit with region-based drop rates. 

I put my phone down again.

I scream into my hands.

I pick my phone up again, because I’m an idiot.

Someone in the comments is extremely furious about the numbers.

• "Typical. More interventions in South Korea than anywhere else. Guess we know whose lives really matter to him."

OH MY GOD.

OF COURSE HE SAVES KOREA MORE OFTEN.

HE LIVES HERE.

WHAT DO YOU WANT HIM TO DO?? IGNORE THE NATION HE PHYSICALLY RESIDES IN SO HE CAN TELEPORT INTO YOUR TIME ZONE JUST TO PROVE A POINT???

Another reply:

• "Meanwhile, entire continents barely receive any direct intervention. What does this tell us?"

I don’t know, buddy.

What does it tell you?

Maybe that he can’t be everywhere at once??

Maybe that your own hunter organizations should be doing their damn jobs instead of waiting for an eldritch entity to babysit them?

But no. No, of course not. Why blame your own country’s underfunded disaster response teams when you can blame the scary shadow man instead.

Blame Sung Jinwoo.

The Cold "God" of Shadows.

The only name that still feels big enough, unreal enough, mythical enough to carry the weight of their anger.

God.

I need a drink.

.

Canada: The Proof That Even the Strongest Hunter in the World Can’t Save Everyone—But That Won’t Stop Them From Screaming at Him Anyway

(I get it. I do. But if you think Oppa is the villain here, then grief has truly driven you mad. And if you think he doesn’t lie awake at night wondering if he could have done more, then you don’t know him at all.)

Ah, Canada.

The land of maple syrup, free healthcare, and catastrophic miscalculations.

A place of peace, politeness, and the most batshit, brain-cell-deficient strategic blunder in modern history.

I want to feel bad.

I do.

But there’s tragic historical losses, and then there’s “being the first country to get nearly, utterly obliterated by an army of alien eldritch nightmare creatures and their dragon king overlord because your top-ranked hunter decided to speedrun his own death sentence like he was competing for a world record.”

And unfortunately, Canada?

Falls into the second category.

I should not be watching this.

I should not be sitting here, face in my hands, screaming into my palms while live footage of a barely-standing Toronto plays on screen.

Because of course there’s a news special.

Because of course we’re talking about it again.

Because of course this is being treated like some great unsolved mystery of the universe instead of the blindingly obvious consequence of ignoring the one guy who solos endgame-level bosses for a living.

The footage rolls.

Ruins. Craters. Entire city blocks reduced to nothing but scorched wreckage.

Survivors wandering through the devastation, hollow-eyed, looking like extras from a zombie movie.

The camera zooms in on a man clutching the sides of a podium like it's the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

His voice breaks. His eyes shine with the sheer, unimaginable devastation of what his country has lost.

And then, as if the weight of existence itself has forced him to say it—

"Why didn’t he come sooner? Why did he let this happen?"

.

.

Oh my god.

I pause the video.

I inhale.

I exhale.

I scream internally.

Because this isn’t just stupidity.

This is an Olympic-level, nuclear-grade, might-actually-make-me-lose-all-faith-in-humanity levels of delusion.

And just when I think it cannot possibly get any dumber, the camera cuts to a press conference.

And there, standing in the flesh, somehow still alive and Prime Minister, is none other than Justin Trudeau himself.

He looks exactly like you’d expect a man to look after barely surviving the total destruction of his country.

Dressed in black, voice somber, he speaks with the kind of presidential gravitas that suggests he has spent hours rehearsing this statement.

“Canada mourns the lives lost in the battle against the Monarchs,” he says, stoic, dignified, the perfect image of political tragedy. “And while we are grateful for the heroism of Sung Jinwoo, we must also ask—could more have been done?”

.

.

OH, I DON’T KNOW, JUSTIN.

MAYBE IF YOUR TOP-RANKED HUNTER HAD TWO FUNCTIONING BRAIN CELLS TO RUB TOGETHER, YOU WOULDN’T BE ASKING THAT QUESTION.

The camera cuts back to the news panel.

And for the first time in my entire miserable existence, a hunter actually tries to argue against the world’s collective lobotomy.

"Sung Jinwoo warned them,” the hunter says, visibly exhausted, like he’s been fighting this battle in his sleep. “He told them to evacuate before it was too late.”

And for one beautiful, fleeting second, I think,

"Oh, finally. A voice of reason."

But then.

But then.

Instead of acknowledging that Canada absolutely, 100% ignored the strongest man in existence, the panel hyperfixates on one name.

One very special, very, very stupid name.

Jay. Mills.

The #1-ranked hunter in Canada.
The #17-ranked hunter in the world.
And, historically, one of the worst decision-makers of all time.

The screen flashes to a clip from months ago.

Jay Mills.

Grinning like an absolute dumbass (I usually don't like to speak ill of the dead but he is an exception).

Arms crossed.

Eyes filled with that special, self-destructive brand of confidence that only people with negative survival instincts seem to have.

And in HD quality, in perfectly captured, soon-to-be-immortalized stupidity, he says:

"Drop the bullshit, kid. Canada can handle itself."

.

.

I have to physically set my phone down.

I have to take several deep breaths through my nose.

Because if I do not, I am going to start screaming so loudly that I will personally become the next global catastrophe.

DROP THE BULLSHIT?

DROP. THE. BULLSHIT???

SIR, YOU DROPPED THE ENTIRE GODDAMN COUNTRY.

YOU COULD NOT HANDLE A PACK OF RABID CANADIAN GEESE, LET ALONE AN APOCALYPTIC WAR.

AND YOU SAID THIS TO SUNG JINWOO??

THE GUY WHO LOOKED YOU DEAD IN THE EYES AND SAID, "LEAVE OR YOU WILL DIE," AND YOU RESPONDED WITH—

"NAH, I'D WIN??"

OH MY ACTUAL GOD.

I scroll further.

And somehow, somehow, the reactions are even worse.

• "We understand that Jay Mills made an error in judgment, but it’s also true that Sung Jinwoo could have stepped in earlier."
• "Regardless of what happened, the world’s strongest hunter should not have allowed an entire country to fall."
• "Why was Korea his first priority? Was there bias in his decision-making?"

.

.

Was there bias?

WAS THERE BIAS???

MY BROTHER LITERALLY TOLD THEM TO LEAVE.

DAYS BEFORE THE ATTACK.

THEY LOOKED THE STRONGEST MAN IN EXISTENCE IN THE FACE, LISTENED TO HIM SAY "YOU WILL DIE," AND THEN SAID "TELL HIM TO STOP SPEWING BULLSHIT." (this is the actual line from the LN)

And now, after completely failing to have a single ounce of common sense, they have decided that it was his fault all along.

I am crying.

Literal tears in my eyes from the absolute Olympic-level mental gymnastics happening right now.

A full country, an entire government, an entire hunter association, and not a single one of them is holding themselves accountable.

Because what is this?

WHAT IS THIS?

HOW DID WE GO FROM “HE WILL DESTROY US ALL” TO “WHY DIDN’T HE SAVE US FIRST”???

HOW DID WE GO FROM FEARING HIM TO DEMANDING HIS POWERS LIKE A REFUNDABLE PRODUCT???

WHAT IS HAPPENING.

.

Oh, it gets worse.

Because just when I think the absolute peak of human stupidity has been reached—just when I think there is no possible way for people to embarrass themselves further—

—the protestors.

A whole, gathered, furious crowd—not the majority of survivors, not even close, but still enough to make it feel like humanity is actively speedrunning its own extinction.

And they’re standing right in front of a major government building, holding bright red-and-white signs, screaming like they’re about to storm the gates of hell itself.

The signs say:

"SUNG JINWOO LET US DIE"

"WHERE WAS OUR SALVATION?"

"STOP SHADOW MONARCH BIAS."

"ALL OR NOTHING: SAVE US ALL OR SAVE NONE."

I physically grab the nearest lamp post and lean on it for support.

Because if I do not anchor myself to reality, I am going to float into the goddamn void.

.

.

SUNG JINWOO LET US DIE???

WHAT?

WHAT??????

HE SHOWED UP.

HE ACTUALLY SHOWED UP.

I would like to remind everyone, for the record, that Oppa did in fact get to Canada.

He teleported into the middle of a three-way Monarch death match, got tag-teamed by the literal worst bosses of the apocalypse, and still managed to wipe out the single biggest existential threat to their entire species.

And somehow, somehow, we have now landed at “he didn’t do enough.”

Oh my god.

I try to breathe.

I cannot.

Because one of the protestors has a goddamn megaphone.

And oh, oh, I am about to be personally victimized by what I’m about to hear.

A woman—**mid-forties, fur-lined parka, looking like she should be picketing for union benefits instead of blaming my brother for her entire existence—**steps forward and yells into the megaphone:

"WE COULD HAVE BEEN SAVED SOONER!"

The crowd cheers.

I choke on my own disbelief.

And then—**oh, because we are not even close to done—**someone else picks up the mic.

A man, early fifties, eyes full of that special kind of unhinged rage that only people with Olympic-level victim complexes seem to have.

"Sung Jinwoo CHOSE to fight the Monarchs on Canadian soil!" he bellows. "He CHOSE this battleground! We didn’t ask for this!"

.

.

I black out.

For just a moment.

Just a tiny, merciful moment of brain failure.

Because if I remain conscious for this stupidity, I will physically combust.

But no. No, my terrible survival instincts force me to stay present.

Which is how I bear witness to the absolute dumbest thing that has ever been spoken out loud.

"He should have fought them somewhere else!"

…EXCUSE ME?????

SOMEWHERE ELSE?????

SOMEWHERE ELSE???????

I stare.

I reboot.

I drag air into my lungs like I’ve just been drowning for the past twenty minutes.

And then, because I am a masochist, I keep listening.

"Why was Canada turned into a warzone?"

"Did he not care about the destruction?"

"Couldn’t he have lured them away?"

LURED. THEM. AWAY.

MY BROTHER FOUGHT THREE MONARCHS AT ONCE AND YOU THINK HE WAS JUST GONNA POLITELY ASK THEM TO RELOCATE???

WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS WAS?? A FUCKING HOTEL RESERVATION?

"Oh sorry, Beast Monarch, this city is booked! Mind taking your genocide attempt to the next available location?"

WHAT.

WHAT.

I check my phone.

Because surely, SURELY, the internet is roasting these people alive.

I go on Twitter. Installed it again like a dumb fool.

I search “Canada protest” in the trending tab.

I am instantly bombarded with takes so stupid that I have to grip the fabric of reality just to remain tethered to this world.

• "Sung Jinwoo used Canada as his personal battlefield and no one sees the issue?"
• "If you’re not going to save us first, don’t save us at all."
• "Countries should be given a CHOICE before their land is used for supernatural warfare."

A CHOICE.

YOU THINK ANTARES AND THE MONARCHS FILED A PERMIT???

YOU THINK THEY WERE GOING TO SEND A FORMAL REQUEST TO THE UN?

"To whom it may concern, we the alien forces of destruction would like to formally request a battleground away from major population centers. Please let us know which country is willing to volunteer as a warzone. Regards, The Apocalypse."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

And then.

Oh. Oh, it gets worse.

Because I see a fucking change.org petition.

A petition.

Titled, and I wish I was joking—

Sung Jinwoo Must Answer for the War Crimes of the Monarch Battle.

.

I am so close to transcending.

War Crimes.

WAR. CRIMES.

ON A BATTLEFIELD HE DIDN’T CHOOSE, AGAINST OPPONENTS HE DIDN’T INVITE, TO STOP A PLANETARY EXTINCTION EVENT THAT HE HAD NO LEGAL OR MORAL OBLIGATION TO INTERFERE WITH.

AND THEY WANT TO TRY HIM FOR WAR CRIMES.

I sit on a bench.

I put my head in my hands.

I consider, for one beautiful, shining moment, telling my brother.

Just so I can see his face.

Just to watch, in real-time, as the world’s greatest killing machine tries to process the sheer absurdity of human stupidity.

Because, let’s be real—what exactly is the plan here?

Are they gonna serve him a subpoena? Send a strongly worded letter? Roll up to Korea in a UN truck, knock on our apartment door, and politely ask,
"Excuse me, Mr. Shadow Monarch, sir, could you kindly stand trial for saving the world?"

Like, are we seeing the problem here?

They can’t kill him. They can’t contain him. They can’t even make him sit through a press conference.

But sure. Go ahead. Try him for war crimes.

Sometimes—God, sometimes—I want to just step aside, open the metaphorical floodgates, and let Oppa have a full and uninterrupted reaction to this absolute circus.

I want to watch the entire global political stage implode in real-time. I want to see the exact moment they realize oh no, we have made a mistake.

I want to make popcorn.

But no.

No.

Because this is my burden now.

I am Oppa’s social media firewall.

I am the final boss between him and the bottomless pit of human stupidity.

And this?

This is my cross to bear.

God.

God.

I should be getting hazard pay for this.

.

Because, of course, there is no mention of how Oppa nearly died fighting three Monarchs alone.

No mention of how he limped home that night, wounded, still healing with his enhanced regen--still bleeding, barely able to stand.

No one saw him that night.

No one saw the scars.

No one saw how he sat at the dinner table, chopsticks in hand, staring at his food like he forgot how to eat.

No one saw Mom sitting next to him, the worry in her eyes, her hands shaking just slightly when she poured him tea and pretended she was fine so we wouldn't worry when I know she was sobbing softly after Oppa and I got back to our rooms.

No one saw the way he stood in front of Dad’s picture that night, unmoving, silent, shadows curling around his feet like mourning veils.

But they see this.

They see the ruins.

They see the bodies.

They see the aftermath of a war they weren’t even strong enough to fight in—

And they only remember his name.

Because it’s easy.

It’s easy to blame the thing you don’t understand.

It’s easy to fear the shadow that saved you.

It’s easy to look at the god who walked through fire and think, why didn’t he do more?

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

If they actually did serve him a subpoena—if they actually summoned the Shadow Monarch to some ridiculous UN courtroom—

He’d probably show up.

Because for some godforsaken reason, my brother still believes in fairness.

He still believes in playing by the rules, even when the rules were never made for people like him.

And that’s the cruelest joke of all.

.

They Call Him the Monster, But He’s the Only One Who Gave a Damn.
(The real monsters? The people who stood back and watched, and now have the audacity to judge him.)

There are three words that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Three words I will hear in my nightmares.

Three words that I will forever associate with the unbelievable, reality-bending, mind-melting stupidity of humanity.

Cold. Detached. Inhuman.

I hear them first on live television, spoken by a middle-aged political analyst in a very expensive suit, sitting in a very expensive studio, sipping what is probably a very expensive coffee, discussing the morality of my brother’s existence like he is a philosophical debate question and not, you know, a human being.

"There is something… unnatural about his composure," the man muses, speaking in the slow, deliberate tone of someone who thinks he’s unraveling the great mysteries of the universe but is, in fact, just full of bullshit.

"He’s too calm. Too emotionless. There is something unsettling about a man who saves without feeling."

And that?

That is the exact moment my soul leaves my body.

.

Because yes.

Yes.

Let’s all pretend, collectively, that Sung Jinwoo is a soulless, unfeeling entity.

Let’s ignore the fact that this is the same man who once teared up over a sad dog commercial.

Let’s erase the fact that he once stood in front of a grocery store display for five whole minutes debating whether to buy extra kimchi for Mom because ‘she might like it.’

Let’s pretend he didn’t go through a phase where he got emotionally invested in a daily drama series and binged eighteen episodes straight because he needed to know if the couple ended up together.

Let’s ignore that I have personally witnessed him standing in the rain, looking suspiciously misty-eyed over an abandoned kitten.

But sure.

Sure.

Clearly, he is cold. Detached. Emotionless.

Clearly.

.

.

The news panel keeps talking.

And the longer they talk, the more I feel my sanity eroding in real-time.

Another analyst leans forward—the kind of guy who probably gets into Twitter arguments about military strategy and refers to himself as an intellectual.

"He is more terrifying than the things inside the dungeons."

Oh.

Oh, we’re doing this.

We’re actually doing this.

They say it like he is the monster.

Like he is something unnatural, something that should not exist.

Like he is some eldritch horror, crawling out from the abyss, something to be feared, something to be contained.

Like he is worse than the creatures that nearly ended the world.

And then, just to absolutely obliterate my will to live, they roll battle footage.

The screen flickers.

And there he is.

Jinwoo Oppa.

Standing in the ruins of a battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of monsters that should not exist, bathed in the eerie purple glow of his own mana.

His expression is blank, unreadable, distant. His eyes shine, reflecting nothing. Shadows coil at his feet, shifting like living things, stretching behind him like a regal cloak, as if reaching for something just out of sight.

He moves with the kind of brutal, unflinching efficiency that comes from knowing hesitation gets you killed.

He does not pause. He does not falter. He does not even blink as he cuts through creatures the size of skyscrapers, his form nothing more than a flash of black steel and unrelenting precision.

The panel watches in silence.

And then, because the universe actively hates me, because my entire existence is a series of unending psychological attacks, one of the journalists leans into the mic and whispers:

"That is not the face of a hero."

"That is the face of a god of death."

.

.

I physically curl in on myself.

Not because I agree.

But because I have seen that face before.

Last week.

In our kitchen.

When he was making ramyeon.

That is his goddamn concentration face.

But sure. Sure. Let’s just pretend that my brother cannot do a single normal thing without looking like the manifestation of death itself.

Let’s just conveniently ignore the fact that I have seen this exact same expression when he was trying to calculate how much soy sauce to add to a recipe.

Because apparently, Sung Jinwoo cannot exist without someone assuming he is actively deciding the fate of mankind.

I dig my fingers into my temples, staring at the screen in exhausted disbelief.

Because this?

This is what happens when the world never actually bothers to know someone. This is what happens when all they see is a force of nature.

An unstoppable weapon.

A god of war wearing a human face.

They see his strength and do not think of how much it must have cost him. They see his blank face in battle and assume he must feel nothing at all. They see a savior and decide that if he does not act the way they expect him to—

If he does not cry or scream or break down in ways they can understand—

Then he must be cold.

He must be detached.

He must be inhuman.

.

.

They don’t know that when he comes home, he still listens to Mom tell him about her day.

They don’t know that when he thinks no one’s watching, he leans against the kitchen counter, rubbing at the old, aching scars that never fully faded.

They don’t know that sometimes, I wake up at 3AM, go to get water, and find him sitting in the living room, staring at nothing, eyes so unbearably, heartbreakingly tired.

They don’t know that he still folds the laundry when Mom’s too tired to do it.

They don’t know that he still pauses outside my room sometimes, like he’s making sure I’m still there.

They don't know that Oppa just accidentally ordered fifteen bottles of milk online last night because he's too socially anxious to attempt another disguised run to the supermarket.

They don’t know

--because he doesn’t let them.

Because he doesn’t know what to say.

Because he doesn’t think he needs to explain himself.

And because, deep down?

Maybe he already knows that no matter what he says, they’ll never believe him.

Because the world has already decided who he is.

And nothing he says will ever change that.

So he lets them think what they want.

He lets them call him a god.

He lets them call him a monster.

And then, when the cameras are off, when the world isn’t watching—

He sighs.

He looks at his phone.

And he says, in the most quiet, broken voice I have ever heard him use: "What am I supposed to do with all this milk?"

.

.

And I?

I simply?

Start crying???

.

"We Need a Backup Plan in Case Sung Jinwoo Goes Rogue" – Famous Last Words of the International Suicide Squad

(Buddy, if he ever went rogue, you wouldn’t need a contingency plan—you’d need a resurrection spell, like... Arise.. or wakey wakey! Welcome to the shadow army!)

Alright, folks.

Gather around.

Let me tell you a truly mind-melting, soul-crushing, sanity-destroying story.

A story about how the human race, after being saved from total extinction by my dumbass, milk-hoarding older brother, decided that the best way to thank him was to plot his assassination.

Yes. You heard me.

Assassination.

Not a medal.
Not a parade.
Not even a passive-aggressive fruit basket.

Murder.

Because, apparently, nothing screams “healthy government policy” like actively trying to kill the one person on Earth who is singlehandedly keeping your dumbasses alive.

.

EXHIBIT A: The Great American Salt Mine.

Ok, here we go.

Because of course America has something to say.

And who better to lead this absolute trainwreck than Donald Trump.

Donald Trump stands at a press podium, squinting at the camera like it personally betrayed him.

And in front of millions of live viewers, this man, this actual honest-to-god President and supposed leader of the free world, leans forward and says,

"I’m gonna tell you something very important, very, very important. This Sung Jinwoo guy—okay? Great power. Unbelievable power. Everyone’s talking about it. But is he an All American hero ? I don’t think so, folks. I mean, we love South Korea—great people, great trade deals—but let’s be honest here. He’s not American. He’s not working for us. ”

.

.

I pause the video.

I stare at my screen.

I consider throwing my phone into the nearest trash can.

Because what.

WHAT.

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN.

THE MAN SAVED THE ENTIRE PLANET.

HE DID NOT SAVE "ONLY AMERICA."

HE DID NOT SAVE "ONLY KOREA."

HE SAVED EVERY SINGLE HUMAN BEING WHO ENJOYS BREATHING OXYGEN.

And your biggest issue is that he doesn’t have an American flag tattooed on his chest???

Oh, but wait.

Wait.

It gets dumber.

“If he wants to be a hero, maybe he should start by working with American hunters— the best hunters, by the way. America has the best hunters." Trump smirks slightly, as if waiting for applause. "Thomas Andre. The Goliath. A true patriot. A man who has dedicated his strength to this great nation. Great guy, very strong. Unbelievable strength. Tremendous. But Sung Jinwoo? We don’t know. We just don’t know.”

And somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of Thomas Andre’s soul exiting his body.

Because Thomas Andre, Oppa's actual ally, the very man they are trying to hype up, is watching this press conference live, from his penthouse in the U.S., looking like he has just been hit by a truck.

The cameras immediately cut to him.

Because, of course, they do.

.

A reporter, seizing the opportunity, shoves a microphone in his face.

"Do you have any comments on President Donald Trump’s statement? Do you agree that Sung Jinwoo is not an American hero?"

And Thomas Andre, the strongest hunter in America, the leader of the Scavenger Guild, the man known for being loud, reckless, and brash—

Looks directly into the camera.

And, in the most deadpan, exhausted voice I have ever heard from him, says:

"That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life."

.

.

The entire broadcast malfunctions.

The news anchors freeze.

The audio cuts out.

And before they can recover, before they can redirect the conversation, Thomas Andre, who has already made up his mind to burn the whole thing to the ground, keeps going.

"Listen. I don't care what anyone says—Sung Jinwoo saved the world. I was there. I saw it with my own two eyes. And anyone who has a problem with that can personally fight me in the streets."

A journalist tentatively raises their hand.

"Are you saying—"

"YES. I AM SAYING FIGHT ME."

And then?

Then, he looks directly into the camera again.

"Hey, Jinwoo. If you're watching this, my penthouse is open for ya! Come here-It's been awhile—"

AND THE LIVE FEED CUTS OUT.

.

EXHIBIT B: The United Nations Panic Spiral.

Meanwhile, over at the United Nations, things are not looking much better.

A bunch of old men in expensive suits are furiously arguing in a private emergency meeting, and the topic of discussion?

"How do we control Sung Jinwoo?"

And I swear to god, they are acting like they are discussing a nuclear bomb that grew legs and is now wandering the streets freely.

One guy, French accent so thick it might as well be satire, leans forward and slams his hands on the table.

"South Korea cannot continue hoarding him like a national treasure! He belongs to the world!"

"We do not hoard him," says the South Korean representative, already rubbing his temples like he has a chronic migraine. "He is a private citizen. We do not control him."

"BUT YOU SHOULD!" the British delegate practically yells.

"You mean to tell me," the German representative says slowly, as if South Korea is personally gaslighting him, "that he has no legal oversight? No official agreements? He is a FREE AGENT?"

The South Korean representative sighs.

"Correct."

And the room absolutely erupts.

Because apparently, that is the worst possible thing they could have heard.

They are not mad that he is dangerous.
They are mad that they do not own him.

And oh, they are bitter.

Because no one likes the fact that South Korea, a tiny country, is at the forefront of world power just by association.

Because they were fine with Korea when it was “the small nation with an up-and-coming economy.”

They were fine when Korea was making phones and entertainment.

But now?

Now, Korea is the home country of the most powerful entity to ever walk the planet.

And now?

NOW THEY WANT A PIECE OF HIM.

.

.

You thought we reached peak stupidity?

You thought we hit rock bottom?

Oh, sweet summer children.

We have not even begun to dig.

.

It's amazing, really. How the world is filled with so many type of people. And yet, this one--the one who somehow and regrettably got chosen to represent EU as defense expert in this high-profile UN summit, is one very special type.

The kind of person who sees a burning house, watches the firefighter carry people to safety, and immediately starts wondering if they should arrest the firefighter just in case he turns into an arsonist later.

Some shiny bald-headed guy in an expensive suit, standing in front of a very serious-looking panel of military leaders, leaning into the mic with the smug confidence of a man who has never fought a single battle in his life.

And this man.

This absolute buffoon.

In front of an entire live audience, says:

"Given his level of strength, I believe we must also consider a global contingency plan to neutralize Sung Jinwoo in case he ever goes rogue."

.

.

Silence.

For a moment, the entire room goes so deathly quiet that I can actually hear the blood pressure of every Korean official skyrocketing in real time.

And then.

Oh.

Oh.

The camera cuts to Woo Jinchul.

And folks?

I have never seen a man’s entire soul leave his body so violently.

Because Woo Jinchul—normally the most calm, composed, hyper-professional government official in the room—

Has just lost his entire grip on reality.

His jaw clenches.

His eyes twitch.

And before anyone can stop him—

HE SLAMS HIS HAND ON THE TABLE SO HARD THAT THE ENTIRE THING NEARLY SNAPS IN HALF. 

The entire room jumps.

The microphones on the table rattle.

The EU representative actually flinches back like he wasn’t expecting consequences for his dumbassery.

And Woo Jinchul, breathing very slowly, very heavily, like he is actively stopping himself from committing a diplomatic incident,

--leans into his mic.

Adjusts his glasses.

And, in a voice so cold that it might actually kill a man, says:

"Would you like to repeat that?"

.

The EU guy—who is now sweating bullets, by the way—laughs nervously.

"Ahaha, I was simply suggesting—"

"No, no, please." Woo Jinchul smiles. It is not a nice smile. It is the kind of smile a predator gives right before tearing out a throat. "Go ahead. Repeat yourself."

At this point, the South Korean delegation is visibly alarmed.

One of them very quietly, very slowly, slides a bottle of water toward Woo Jinchul like he is trying to soothe a feral animal.

It does not work.

Because Woo Jinchul is fully locked in.

Oh, you wanted to neutralize Sung Jinwoo?

You wanted to contain the Shadow Monarch?

You wanted to come into this room, into this meeting, after watching Sung Jinwoo save your asses FOR FREE, and suggest planning HIS MURDER???

Fine.

You get Woo Jinchul’s full attention now.

And oh.

Oh, he is about to ruin your life.

"Just so I understand," Woo Jinchul continues in perfect English, voice smooth, professional, the kind of professional that usually precedes an international lawsuit. "You, a representative of the European Union, are publicly suggesting a plan to eliminate Hunter Sung Jinwoo. The same Sung Jinwoo who singlehandedly prevented the annihilation of every country on this planet, including yours. The same Sung Jinwoo who has never once demanded compensation, status, or land. The same Sung Jinwoo who, as of this moment, has not even made a public statement about his own victory because he is too busy living his life. You, sir, are suggesting a contingency plan against him, correct?"

The EU guy, who is now realizing that he has made a grave mistake, visibly wilts.

"I was merely considering—"

"Hypotheticals?" Woo Jinchul nods. "Ah, I see. A hypothetical plan. A hypothetical strategy. For a hypothetical situation."

He tilts his head, voice dangerously pleasant.

"Tell me, sir. Have you considered a hypothetical where you shut the hell up?"

.

The entire room malfunctions.

Someone coughs.

Someone else gasps.

And Woo Jinchul—a man who has spent YEARS being professional, being restrained, being the perfect government official—

Has just told a European Union representative to shut the hell up in front of a live audience.

And back in Seoul, inside the Korean Hunter Association headquarters, the rest of the KHA is losing their minds.

One guy has to leave the room because he is actually wheezing.

Another official is gripping his pen so tightly it SNAPS IN HALF.

And one poor, exhausted staffer mutters, "Well, we’re definitely getting an email about that."

But Woo Jinchul?

Woo Jinchul does not care.

Because while the world is fighting over how to own him, while countries argue over who deserves him, while militaries plot on how to kill him just in case—

The Korean Hunter Association is DONE.

They are tired.

They are over it.

And they have decided, as a collective entity, that no one is touching Sung Jinwoo.

Not the UN.
Not the EU.
Not Donald Trump and his Dumbass Patriotism Tour.

No one.

And me?

I sit in my room, watching the absolute downfall of humanity unfold on my screen, and I laugh.

.

This is so much worse than I ever imagined.

But then.

Just as the laughter starts to die in my throat, just as the full weight of what I have witnessed begins to settle—

A terrifying realization creeps in.

They’re really talking about killing him.

Like he’s not a person.

Like he’s not someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s friend.

Like he’s already not human.

.

,

The Sung Jinwoo Hate Club & The Rise of Useless Hunters: A Society of the World's Saltiest, Laziest, and Most Unhinged Hunters

Alright. Let’s get one thing straight.

There is another very special type of person in the world, most likely best buddy to the insane EU guy from before.

The kind of person who looks at a burning building, watches a firefighter run inside to save people, and instead of feeling grateful, immediately starts bitching about how the firefighter isn’t charging money for his services.

The kind of person who sees a free hospital, offering free life-saving treatments, and instead of celebrating, immediately starts screaming about how unfair it is to private doctors who charge 150,000,000 KRW (approx. US$100,000) per surgery.

The kind of person who, upon watching Sung Jinwoo literally save the entire goddamn planet for free, sits back in their expensive leather chair, sips their overpriced whiskey, and scoffs.

"Tch. What an idiot."

Because welcome to the hunter world.

Where nothing matters more than power, money, and milking the entire system for every last cent.

And guess what?

Sung Jinwoo just ruined the economy.

Who’s Mad? Oh, Just Every Greedy Hunter on the Planet.

Imagine, for a moment, that you’re a high-ranked hunter.

Not a good one.

Not a Cha Haein, not a Baek Yoonho, not a Choi Jongin who actually clears dungeons because it’s their job and they have a conscience.

No, no.

You’re the other kind.

The kind who treats civilians like background extras.
The kind who bullies lower-ranked hunters because you can.
The kind who treats every dungeon like a goddamn bidding war, demanding the highest possible pay before lifting a single finger.

And for years, this has worked out great for you.

Because who else were people going to turn to?

If they didn’t pay you, people would die.

If the governments didn’t agree to your terms, their cities would burn.

You were a celebrity. You were powerful. You were untouchable.

And then.

THEN.

Some random E-Rank nobody from South Korea suddenly starts clearing high-level dungeons by himself.

Some absolute cryptid of a man suddenly solos an entire guild.

Some eldritch horror in human skin suddenly flies into the sky, commands an ARMY OF THE DEAD, and rips the literal King of Dragons in half in front of the whole world.

And you think, Huh.

"Well, that’s mildly concerning."

And then.

Then, you realize the worst part.

He doesn’t charge a cent.

He neutralizes catastrophic threats.
He saves entire cities.
He prevents mass casualties.

For. Free.

.

.

Oops.

The Sound of Every Greedy Hunter’s Wallet Slamming Shut

It starts slow.

Governments begin hesitating before caving to S-Rank payment demands.

Big corporations, once terrified of dungeon disasters, suddenly have another option.

And the worst part?

They start calling Sung Jinwoo instead.

Because why pay fifty million dollars to a squad of self-important, arrogant hunters—

—when you could just hope that a quiet, extremely overpowered Korean guy will fix the problem for free?

And oh.

Oh, the tantrums.

These hunters, these men who once thought they were gods, who built their entire lives on power, money, and control—are now losing their minds.

Their income is dropping.
Their importance is fading.
Their influence is crumbling.

And who is to blame?

Not their own greed.

Not their own incompetence.

Not the fact that they spent years abusing the system instead of being genuinely good at their jobs.

No.

It’s Sung Jinwoo’s fault.

Because if they’re suffering, surely it must be the fault of the guy who saved the world.

.

.

Right?

Welcome to the "Sung Jinwoo Doesn't Deserve His Power" Discourse

Oh, and let’s not forget the best part.

Because some of these hunters, these grown-ass men, these world-renowned professionals, are now sitting in TV interviews, Twitter spaces, and podcast episodes, furiously arguing that Sung Jinwoo doesn’t deserve his power.

Because, apparently, it’s "unearned."

Because he just got lucky.

Because they could do a better job if they had his abilities.

Because he’s a naive idiot for not demanding pay.

I scroll through the news and oh, here we go.

An actual headline from a hunter in France:

"True Power Should Belong to a Responsible Leader, Not a Silent Monster."

OH, I SEE.

RESPONSIBLE??

WHO DO YOU THINK FOUGHT THREE MONARCHS AT ONCE WHILE YOUR S-RANKS RAN FOR THEIR LIVES?

WHO DO YOU THINK SAVED ENTIRE CITIES WHILE YOU WERE BUSY ATTENDING AWARD SHOWS FOR "HUNTER OF THE YEAR"?

WHO DO YOU THINK RISKED HIS LIFE WITHOUT ASKING FOR A SINGLE THING IN RETURN???

Oh, but wait.

Wait.

My favorite take.

Some of these hunters are now saying that the only reason he doesn’t care about money is because he’s basically a god.

That it’s easy for him to refuse payment because he has limitless power.

That if he were a "real hunter," he'd be charging a fair rate like everyone else.

OH MY GOD.

DO YOU KNOW WHO MY BROTHER IS?

Do you realize that this is the same man who, not long ago, was an E-Rank struggling to pay our mom’s hospital bills?

Do you understand that he spent YEARS throwing himself into dangerous dungeons for PENNIES just so I could go to school?

And you’re telling me he doesn’t care about money because he’s a god?

No.

He doesn’t care about money because he knows what it’s like to be desperate for it.

Because he knows what it’s like to not have a choice.

Because he remembers what it was like to be one of the people you bastards used to step on.

And now that he doesn’t need the money, now that he has enough power to just help people for free?

You hate him for it.

Because he isn't playing the game the way you want him to.

Because he isn’t making this about status or wealth or influence.

Because you can’t stand the fact that someone this strong would rather save people than profit from their suffering.

And me?

I sit back.

I watch these hunters throw tantrums on live TV, I watch them cry about how the world is unfair to them, I watch them call my brother selfish and irresponsible and inhuman—

And for the first time in a long time, I genuinely want to punch someone.

Because these men?

These pathetic, greedy, self-absorbed, power-hungry children?

They would have let the world burn.

—If it meant keeping their paychecks.

.

.

And yet... we have not even begun to scrape the bottom of this bottomless pit of clownery.

Because the Sung Jinwoo Hate Club isn't just made up of hunters who lost money.

Oh no.

It's also made up of a brand-new breed of post-Antares hunters—

The Useless Ones.

"Why Should We Fight Monsters When Sung Jinwoo Can Just Do It?"

Let me set the scene for you.

Before my brother turned into an eldritch horror with a free world-saving policy, hunters had a purpose.

Clear dungeons.
Kill monsters.
Save civilians.
Or, if you were a selfish piece of garbage, at least pretend to do those things while cashing a fat paycheck.

Even if you weren’t exactly thrilled about the job hazards, the constant escalation of gate openings and the shortage of high-ranked hunters kept everyone too busy to complain.

But now?

Now, it’s different.

Because there is a silent, unspoken question that every hunter in the world—especially the lazy ones—has realized.

"Why should I bother risking my life when Sung Jinwoo and his immortal army exist?"

Oh, yeah.

This is real.

This is an actual mindset people have now.

Because after Antares, after the biggest war the world has ever seen, after Jinwoo killed multiple Monarchs in broad daylight, with live footage of him fighting in the skies like a goddamn biblical angel—

Some hunters just stopped trying.

Because now, when a disaster happens, people hold their breath and wait.

They don’t beg S-Rank guilds to help.
They don’t scream for national hunters to step up.
They look to the sky, hoping the Shadow Monarch will just show up and fix everything.

And when he does?

These hunters feel validated in their complete and utter uselessness.

"Oh, he did it again?"
"Guess we dodged another crisis without having to do anything!"
"Man, being a hunter is great."

And me?

I want to start throwing people into the sun.

The Rise of the "Unemployed But Busy" Hunter Class

Alright, so if hunters aren’t fighting, what are they doing?

Oh, my dear reader.

I am so glad you asked.

Because welcome to the newest, dumbest, most brain-cell-destroying trend in post-Antares society:

Hunter Entertainment Tournaments.

You heard me.

A bunch of S-Rank, A-Rank, and even some desperate C-Rank hunters, instead of using their very real, very terrifying powers to, you know, actually help humanity,

have decided to revive gladiator bloodsports.

For fun.

For fame.

For sponsorships.

Yes.

These fully grown, highly trained, government-funded superhumans—people who were once considered humanity’s last line of defense—have officially retired from saving lives and are now punching each other in stadiums for prize money and TV ratings.

Because apparently, once you’ve stared death in the face, the only logical next step is to monetize violence.

And I wish I was joking.

• International Hunter League: Hunters beating the hell out of each other in "friendly" combat instead of clearing dungeons.
• Hunter Poker Nights: Using supernatural abilities to cheat in the most illegal games ever played.
• Elemental Olympics: Where hunters with flame, ice, wind, or lightning abilities hold "who can be the flashiest" competitions.
• "Extreme Dungeon Tours" Reality Show: Where hunters go into already cleared dungeons just to flex on camera.

AND PEOPLE LOVE IT.

People love watching these idiots show off.

The same hunters who used to extort governments, who used to act like they were gods among men, are now doing sponsored product placement in televised superhuman cage matches.

And the kicker?

They’re still calling themselves the world’s strongest hunters.

.

.

HELLO???

THE WORLD’S STRONGEST AT WHAT?

AT FLEXING ON CAMERA?

AT SEEING WHO CAN THROW A FIREBALL THE FASTEST?

AT KICKING EACH OTHER’S TEETH IN WHILE GETTING PAID TO ADVERTISE PROTEIN POWDER?

MAKE IT MAKE SENSE.

In Conclusion: The Sung Jinwoo Hate Club’s Two-Front War Against Him

So now, we have two types of salty hunters.

The ones who hate him because they lost money.
The ones who hate him because he made their job obsolete.

And these two groups?

Oh, they hate each other.

Because on one hand, you’ve got the greedy hunters, foaming at the mouth, screaming about how Jinwoo ruined their profits.

"He's reckless! Dangerous! He should be charging the proper rates!"

And on the other hand, you’ve got the lazy hunters, sipping cocktails and making YouTube money, wondering why the first group is still complaining.

"Why are you mad? Just do tournaments like the rest of us."

And both sides?

Both sides hate my Oppa.

Because one side thinks he’s naive for not demanding money.
And the other side thinks he’s ruining their new carefree, zero-effort lifestyle by still saving people.

And at the very core of it?

They all share one common, rotting, bitter little thought.

"I could have done it better if I had his power."

.

.

Really?

Really???

You??

The guy who just electrocuted himself trying to be the fastest lightning user in a tournament?

The guy who got caught cheating in a hunter poker match by accidentally setting the deck on fire?

The guy who would rather take brand deals than fight an actual monster?

YOU THINK YOU COULD HAVE HANDLED THE MONARCH WAR???

YOU THINK YOU COULD HAVE SAVED THE PLANET???

YOU THINK YOU’RE MORE DESERVING???

My soul leaves my body.

I am sitting here, watching this circus of grown men whining on live TV, and I actually, for the first time, feel something close to hatred.

Because these people?

These are the same types of people who used to mock Oppa when he was an E-Rank nobody.

The same ones who acted untouchable, who bullied weaker hunters just because they could, who saw civilians as walking paychecks instead of people.

The same ones who, if given Oppa’s power, wouldn’t have saved a single damn person.

Because to them?

Power is just a way to get more money.
Power is just a way to get more fame.
Power is just a cheat code to make the world treat them like gods.

And they hate Oppa because he never saw it that way.

He never let power define him.
He never let power change his goals.
He never let power turn him into the kind of monster they already are.

And that?

That is unforgivable to them.

So they call him naive.

They call him stupid.

They call him inhuman.

But the truth?

The truth is they’re just bitter that someone like him exists.

Because it means they have to face the fact that they were never heroes to begin with.

.

.

I don’t know how I made it home.

I don’t even remember running.

The streets blurred. The voices faded. The panic in my lungs didn’t let up, not even when I turned the last corner, not even when I saw our front door, not even when I nearly tripped over my own feet trying to get inside—

.

The smell of gochujang hits me first. Warm. Familiar. Safe. The kind of smell that belongs to a home, to a kitchen too small for a family that has lived through hell.

I step inside, heart still hammering in my chest, mind still reeling from everything I’ve just heard, just witnessed—

And then I see them.

Standing at the stove.

Mixing sauce.

Like nothing is wrong.

Like the world isn’t outside debating whether he should still exist.

Mom stirs something in a pot, frowning slightly. "Add more sugar, Jinwoo. It’s too salty."

Jinwoo, sleeves pushed up, faint bruises barely visible on his wrist, lifts an eyebrow. "I already did."

She clicks her tongue. "Then add more."

He sighs, grabs the sugar container, and mutters something under his breath about how this is just science now, not cooking.

I just stand there.

Staring.

.

My mind is still filled with a thousand voices, a thousand accusations, a thousand knives waiting to be driven into his back—

And this is what I walk into.

Not an apocalypse.

Not the fallout of humanity’s ongoing trial against him.

Just… my mom and my brother.

Cooking.

Like it's any other night.

Like we’re back in the old days—before the coma, before the dungeons, before the wars—when Mom was still standing in this kitchen every night, and Oppa was small enough to barely reach the counter, standing on his toes just to help.

.

When Dad was still around.

.

He never cooked, but he sure as hell had opinions on food.

"You’re killing me, Kyunghye," he used to groan dramatically from the living room, sprawled across the couch in his firefighter uniform like he’d barely survived a war. "This kitchen is a biochemical hazard. The spiciness alone could send me into cardiac arrest."

Mom never spared him a glance. "Then die quietly."

"Why is there kimchi in everything? Are we fermenting our insides? Are we the kimchi?"

"Jinwoo, listen to me, son. If you love me, if you respect me as your father, you will not let your mother put another spoonful of gochujang in that pot—"

"Jinwoo, do not listen to your father," Mom cut in smoothly, "because he is a liar and a coward and doesn’t appreciate good food."

Oppa, seven years old, big-eyed and utterly serious about his duty as Mom’s assistant, would only nod, turn back to the pot, and keep mixing.

.

It was stupid. It was normal. It was ours.

And now—

.

Now I’m standing here, watching what’s left of that life still play out, like a ghost of something I barely remember..

.

Mom pinches a bit of gochujang from the pot with her fingers, tastes it, grimaces.

"I told you, more sugar."

Jinwoo rolls his eyes. "At this point, should I just dump the whole container in?"

Mom hums. "Try it first, then we’ll see."

And for a second—

For one long, suspended, surreal second—

I feel like I’m in the wrong timeline.

Like I’ve walked into some parallel universe where the world isn’t actively plotting against the person standing right there, measuring out tablespoons of sugar.

Like I’m the only one who remembers that outside these walls, people are debating whether he should even be alive.

Like I’m the only one who realizes how wrong this is.

I try to speak, but my throat locks up.

Jinwoo glances at me, finally registering that I’m standing there, staring at them like I just saw a ghost.

"You’re home early," Mom says, finally acknowledging me, as if this is just another night.

As if the world hasn’t already decided what it wants to do with him.

As if they don’t understand that I have spent the last hour trying not to lose my goddamn mind.

Jinwoo frowns. "You good?"

And I break.

I collapse into him without thinking, arms wrapping tight around his middle, holding onto him like I’m afraid he’s going to disappear.

I feel him freeze.

He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t react—because when was the last time someone held him like this?

"...Jinah?" His voice is uncertain, almost wary.

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face against his shoulder. I can hear his heartbeat—steady, quiet, real.

He smells like clean laundry and that stupid generic shampoo we’ve all used since we were kids, the one he never stopped buying because he never cared enough to pick another.

He is here.

He is real.

Not a god.
Not a monster.
Not the thing they are debating on television.
Just Jinwoo.

Just my brother.

His hand slowly comes up to pat my back, stiff, awkward, like he’s comforting a crying stranger instead of his own sister.

"...Are you okay?" he mutters, like he isn’t the one the whole world is dissecting under a microscope.

I shake my head, gripping his shirt tighter. My throat is closing up. I can’t speak.

There’s a pause. He shifts, uncertain, still uncomfortable with being held, but not pulling away.

And then—soft, confused, painfully Oppa—

"Jinah, uh… you’re gonna get gochujang in your hair."

Something breaks in my chest.

A choked, gasping laugh-sob slips out before I can stop it, and once it starts, I can’t hold it back. The tears spill over, hot and humiliating, and I can’t stop shaking.

Mom doesn’t say anything.

She just takes a slow sip of tea and pretends not to notice.

Because that’s what we do in this family.

We pretend.

We go through the motions, we hold onto the scraps of normalcy, we smile over dinner like we don’t know that the whole world is waiting for an excuse to rip him apart.

I hold onto him tighter.

.

.

The world can rot for all I care now.

Chapter Text

You ever wake up knowing the universe has personally decided to ruin your life?

Not just regular bad, like, oops, I forgot to do my homework and now I’m going to fail algebra bad.

No, I’m talking about the existential kind of bad.

The kind of bad where you wake up, blink blearily at your ceiling, and immediately feel an invisible force hovering ominously over your soul, whispering:

Get up, dumbass. Fate is waiting to roundhouse-kick you in the face.

That was me this morning.

Because last night? I cried.

And not just any crying.

No, this was the kind of full-body, soul-wrenching, embarrassingly snot-filled breakdown that only happens when your entire worldview gets drop-kicked into oblivion.

Because for the first time in my life, I had actually worried about my older brother.

Not the casual he’s-gonna-get-too-busy-to-text-back kind of worry.
Not even the hope-he’s-not-too-exhausted-from-saving-the-world-again kind of worry.

I mean the full-scale, existential, my-god-this-man-has-the-survival-instincts-of-a-possessed-roomba kind of worry.

And worse?

I had cracked.

I had clung to him—full, ugly crying, sobbing into his stupid hoodie like some medieval knight’s emotional support squire, clutching their war-bound commander and begging them to return alive.

I had, against all my instincts, let him see how much I actually cared.

And now?

Now, I had to face the consequences.

.

.

I had fully prepared for the natural order of things.

I was bracing for Mom to sit me down at the kitchen table, place a warm cup of tea in my hands, and unleash her gentle-but-inescapable therapist voice.

It’s okay to cry, Jinah.
Your brother loves you, Jinah.
Have you been getting enough sleep, Jinah?
Would you like me to call an exorcist for whatever emotional possession made you hug your brother last night, Jinah?

Because let’s be honest, that had to be a spiritual phenomenon. There was no way in hell I had done that of my own free will.

But instead?

Instead, I walked into the kitchen and saw Sung Jinwoo sitting at the table.

Like a normal human being.

.

For a long, horrified moment, I just stared.

Because there was no logical reason for Sung Jinwoo to be here at this hour.

This was against the laws of physics.

This was a disruption in the very fabric of reality.

My brother—humanity’s strongest hunter, the unchallenged Shadow Monarch, the walking nuclear deterrent—did not have time for breakfast.

Normally, by the time I woke up, he was long gone, already off doing whatever god-tier saviors of humanity do.

The only proof that he had even been home was a mysteriously cleaned kitchen, faint traces of mana in the air, and the morning news reporting that some S-rank catastrophe had mysteriously resolved itself overnight.

But today?

No.

He was here.

Sitting.
Eating porridge.
Drinking tea.

Existing in the morning like someone who didn’t have deities to slap around before lunch.

.

Looking like he had, in fact, spent the entire morning waiting for me.

And then—the moment he saw me, his expression did something weird.

It softened. Like he was relieved.

Like he had actually been waiting for me to wake up.

Red flag. Immediate red flag.

I stopped in my tracks. Suspicious. “...You’re still here.”

Jinwoo didn’t even look up. “Sit. Eat.”

Oh dear.

.

I cautiously took my seat, watching him like he was an advanced AI parent unit from a sci-fi movie, glitching between emotionally constipated and aggressively overbearing.

Because let’s be clear: Sung Jinwoo does not do casual morning meals.

This was wrong.

This was a glitch in the matrix.

This was as if I had woken up to find Mom launching a Twitch streaming career.

And now? He was pouring me more porridge.

I stared at the steaming bowl in front of me. Then at him.

“…What.”

Oppa, in the most casually unsettling way possible, just refilled his own bowl and kept eating. Like this wasn’t weird.

Mom, of course, was thriving in this chaos. She just hummed, stirring the japchae, clearly entertained as hell.

I squinted. “Something’s wrong.”

And then—it got worse.

Because first, he checked my bag.

Not casually. Not like a normal, Hey, you got everything? kind of check.

No.

He lifted it, weighed it, assessed the zipper, the contents—did some kind of insane advanced tactical calculation in his head as if he were determining whether I had the proper gear loadout for my high-stakes mission to high school.

—then he muttered his verdict,  “Your history textbook is too heavy. You should balance it between two compartments next time.”

I blinked. “Did you just—”

“Also,” he continued, “your math workbook is missing two pages from the back. Did someone rip them?”

I blinked harder.

“…Why do you know that?”

Oppa ignored me and did something even worse.

He handed me pocket money.

I stared at the bills in my hand.

Then at him.

Then back at the bills.

“…Why?”

Jinwoo, with all the casual confidence of a man who had just decided he was now an active parental figure in my life again since Mom woke up, shrugged.

“You might need it.”

“For what?”

Jinwoo just gave me a vague, serious nod. “Emergencies.”

“What kind of emergencies?”

“If you get hungry.”

“…That’s called lunch money, and I already have some?”

“Then use it for snacks.”

I was staring at him so hard my vision was starting to vibrate.

Jinwoo, completely unbothered, turned to his tea in the same manner like he had just solved a major world crisis.

Mom? Trying so hard not to laugh.

And then—the final straw.

Jinwoo checked the umbrella by the door. 

Like, actually checked it. Confirmed its presence. Nodded to himself like he had just ensured my continued survival.

I don’t know why that was what broke me, but it was.

I slammed my spoon down. “Okay, what the hell is this?!”

Jinwoo paused mid-bite.

“This!” I gestured violently at the entire, incomprehensible situation unfolding before me. “You! Sitting here! Acting normal! Giving me money. Checking my bag. Making sure I have a freaking umbrella.”

Oppa just blinked. “It might rain later.”

Oh my god.

“It is not going to rain later!”

Oppa blinked again, expression unreadable. “Forecast says—”

“I CHECKED THE FORECAST! IT SAYS CLEAR SKIES.”

Oppa just hummed like he knew something I didn’t. “Forecasts can be wrong.”

I was losing my mind.

Mom was actually wheezing at this point.

And Jinwoo, my absolutely deranged older brother, had the audacity—the sheer, unhinged gall—to push the bowl of porridge closer to me.

“Eat before it gets cold.”

At this point, I had two options:

1. Accept my fate and eat my porridge.
2. Launch myself into the abyss and let the void consume me.

I put my head in my hands. I was being parent-trapped into feeling better.

Jinah’s Mental Stability: 0 | Sung Jinwoo’s Chaos: 100

Now, I could have let it go.

I could have accepted my fate, acknowledged that Oppa had entered Overbearing Big Brother Mode™, and simply moved on with my life.

But no.

I am not built that way.

So I shoved my bowl away, pushed my chair back, and decided to force some goddamn reality into this household.

"Okay. No. We need to talk about this."

Oppa finally looked up, mildly amused, like a parent humoring a toddler about to demand why the sky is blue.

"Talk about what?"

Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that half the world is either worshiping you or plotting your downfall?

I threw up my hands. “Maybe the fact that you’re an actual living nuclear deterrent? That people are terrified of you? That you’re just sitting here eating porridge like that’s not a big deal?!”

Jinwoo arched an eyebrow.

And, somehow, that was already too much.

Because he wasn’t just calm.
He wasn’t just unbothered.

No.

The bastard was enjoying this.

There was a flicker of amusement in his face, like I was the entertainment for the morning.

And worse? There was something else.

Something small. Something almost soft.

Like he was touched—Like he still wasn’t used to the fact that I cared.

Oh, for god’s sake. Now I was more annoyed.

“You know what? Fine,” I said, snatching the remote off the table. “You don’t believe me?”

Oppa, calm as ever, just picked up his tea.

(Oh my god. He was actually sipping tea at me. Like some kind of sage old man who had already predicted my next five moves.)

I switched the TV to the one channel we never watch.

The one that Mom usually shuts off before she can throw a plate to the screen.

The moment the channel flickered on, the volume felt louder.

On-screen, some self-important world leader was absolutely losing his mind.

“SUNG JINWOO IS AN UNCHECKED FORCE!”

Oh boy.

“A THREAT TO GLOBAL STABILITY! NO SINGLE MAN SHOULD WIELD THIS MUCH POWER!”

Jinah’s Mental Stability: 0.

Jinwoo’s Porridge Consumption: Uninterrupted.

“IT IS THE DUTY OF WORLD LEADERS TO—”

I stabbed my finger at the TV, glaring at Oppa, practically vibrating with the righteous fury of someone who has been gaslit for the last twenty minutes.

“SEE? THIS! THIS IS WHAT I MEAN!”

Oppa?

Didn’t. Even. Blink.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even look remotely surprised.

Like I had just informed him that water was wet.

Or that gravity existed.

Or that his little sister was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Which—I was.

And he was still eating his damn porridge.

I was going to die right here, at this breakfast table, from secondhand international crisis stress. And when I did, Oppa was going to collect my shadow like a goddamn insurance policy.

He watched the screen with that unreadable, detached expression of his—not irritated, not even vaguely interested, just assessing. 

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. Because the last time I saw that look, he was standing in the wreckage of a battlefield, staring down an enemy with the silent, suffocating patience of something that could wait forever before deciding exactly how it wanted to erase you from existence.

Then, so casually it made my skin crawl, he set his spoon down.

Taptaptap. His fingers drummed against the table as if running through a list of options.

“James Whitmore,” he murmured.

I froze mid-breath.

Jinwoo didn’t even look at me. Didn’t look at the TV. Didn’t need to.

His voice was smooth, even, that effortless quiet confidence that could probably make actual intelligence operatives cry into their whiskey.

“United States Secretary of Defense. Fifty-eight. Former oil lobbyist. Deep pockets in intelligence circles—CIA black ops, MOSSAD counterintelligence, KGB legacy networks.”

A sound was trying to leave my throat. It was caught somewhere between a choked wheeze and a horrified, dying bird noise.

Mom stopped stirring the japchae.

HELLO.

HELLO?????

WHAT DO YOU MEAN "CIA BLACK OPS??"

WHAT DO YOU MEAN "KGB LEGACY NETWORKS???"

HELLO??????????

Meanwhile, Jinwoo just kept going. Like this was a totally normal thing to say in a completely normal breakfast conversation. Like he was rattling off fun facts about bird migration patterns instead of dropping a goddamn classified intelligence dossier from memory.

“Been lobbying for increased military budgets,” he continued, exhaling through his nose like he had just solved the The Korea Herald crossword puzzle. “Pushing the ‘hunter crisis’ narrative. Consolidating power.”

I was short-circuiting. My brain was actively refusing to process any of this. Mom had fully stopped moving, and Jinwoo—my completely incomprehensible older brother—just leaned back slightly, exuding that same mildly exasperated patience of someone who had already finished three steps ahead in the conversation and was now waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

My voice sounded weak. “How… do you know all that?”

Jinwoo finally glanced at me.

And for just a second—barely there, barely noticeable—the tight control he had over his mana slipped, and his eyes gleamed a familiar regal violet.

“I keep an eye on things.”

Like it was nothing.

Like he hadn’t just unraveled an entire man’s classified existence while drinking tea.

Like he wasn’t casually admitting to knowing things that should require multiple clearance levels and a personal visit from both the KCIA, the NIS, and the American FBI.

Mom inhaled slowly, her grey eyes wide. "Jinwoo.."

But of course, after dropping an entire classified intel dossier from memory on live television, her son—the apocalypse-wielding, shadow-summoning, god-tier being that half the world worships and the other half fears—had the audacity to shrug.

Like he had just vaguely guessed today’s weather.

And I, a completely normal person just trying to live a normal life, had a very reasonable response to this.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!”

Jinwoo blinked at me. “What?”

“‘I keep an eye on things’?!” I gestured wildly. “That is not a normal sentence, oppa! You can’t just say ominous nonsense like that and expect me to fucking move on!”

He had the nerve—THE NERVE—to look vaguely amused. "Don't curse, Jinah." 

EXCUSE ME.

EXCUSE ME??????????????

Mom was not laughing. She wasn’t even scolding me like she usually does when I curse. She looked like she was experiencing a small aneurysm in real-time.

And then, in that soft, maddeningly casual way of his, Jinwoo said—

“Well.”

He picked up his tea. Took a sip.

“I have shadows.”

I stopped breathing.

Mom put her chopsticks down very slowly.

“…Okay.” I exhaled shakily, pressing my fingers to my temples. “That’s a very concerning sentence. Would you like to elaborate?”

Jinwoo hummed, as if I had just asked him to explain how to properly cook rice. “I can place my shadows on anyone who has a shadow.”

I blinked. “You can—what?”

“Not everyone, of course,” he continued, as if he wasn’t saying something out of a goddamn psychological horror film. “That would be too much mana. Too much noise. But the key people? The ones who matter?”

His fingers tapped lightly against the table.

“I hear everything they hear. See everything they see. Whenever I need to.”

The room shrank.

The air went still.

The air dropped several degrees.

A small, horrifying thought hit me.

“Wait,” I croaked. “You—you mean world leaders, right? Like politicians?”

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly. “Politicians. Military heads. Corporate executives. Certain journalists.”

I could feel the color drain from my face.

“…Journalists?”

Jinwoo shrugged. “Some of them are paid off. Some of them work for intelligence agencies. It’s useful to know who’s spinning what narrative.”

Mom put a hand over her mouth.

Meanwhile, I was actively dissociating.

“Oh my god.” My voice cracked. “How long? How long have you been doing this?”

Jinwoo hummed, thoughtful. “Since I got the ability.”

...

...

S I N C E H E G O T T H E A B I L I T Y.

I made a noise.

A weak, dying noise.

A noise that could only be produced by someone realizing—too late—that their brother might actually be the singular force holding the entire world in check.

Beside me, Mom’s entire aura changed.

She had stiffened, ever so slightly, her fingers curled lightly around her teacup. When she finally spoke, her voice had lowered an entire octave, the exact tone she used when Oppa and I were about to get grounded for something really, really stupid.

“Jinwoo,” Mom said slowly. “Are you telling me you’ve had this running in the background this entire time?”

Jinwoo blinked at her. “Well. Yes.”

I needed to lie down.

Mom leaned back very slowly. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like she needed a full-body reset to process what she just heard.

“..And what exactly do you do with this information?”

Jinwoo tilted his head, as if the answer was so obvious it didn’t even need to be said.

“Depends.”

Mom’s expression tightened. “On?”

Jinwoo smiled.

Small. Quiet. Regal.

“On whether they make themselves a threat.”

The room dropped ten degrees.

I swallowed. “And if they do?”

Jinwoo’s eyes flickered—just a shade darker, a shade deeper. The faintest pulse of unearthly violet light rippled at the edges of his pupils, there and gone in an instant.

“Then I act.”

His voice was so calm.

So absolute. So matter-of-factly.

“I let the right information reach the right people. Drop the necessary reports into the necessary hands. By the time they realize what’s happening…”

He picked up his tea. Took another sip.

“…They don’t have the power to be a problem anymore.”

I stopped breathing.

Mom fully leaned back now, processing the fact that her son is the human embodiment of a classified security agency.

“…How often does this happen?” she asked.

Jinwoo hummed. “Rarely.”

“Rarely,” I repeated, weakly.

Jinwoo nodded. “Most of them are just noise.”

Mom exhaled through her nose. Like she had briefly ascended to a higher plane of existence just to escape this conversation.

"And if they stop being noise?” she asked.

Jinwoo took a final sip of tea, his voice soft. Certain. Unbothered.

“Then I dismantle them before they ever become a threat.”

Silence.

I was dizzy.

.

“Okay. No. NO. This—this is insane. This is ACTUALLY insane.”

Jinwoo tilted his head. “What’s insane?”

I grabbed the remote like a woman possessed. Mom didn’t stop me. Possibly because she, too, was experiencing the early stages of emotional shutdown.

I flipped to another channel.

The screen changed to Emmanuel Rousseau, President of the EU.

“What about him?!” I demanded

Jinwoo glanced at the screen, looking vaguely unimpressed. “Rousseau? Money laundering through real estate investments in Morocco. If he gets too aggressive, I’ll leak the documents.”

I choked.

FLIP.

Fujimura Daichi, Japan’s Minister of Defense.

Jinwoo actually sighed. “He’s got offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Tied to bribery in the aerospace sector. Not worth acting on yet, but I’ll keep an eye on it.”

FLIP.

Kim Sang-wook, South Korea’s National Assembly Leader.

Jinwoo sipped his tea. “Ties to chaebol conglomerates, taking kickbacks on government contracts. Already have reports drafted, in case he tries to pull something.”

I flipped again, desperate.

Justin Trudeau.

Jinwoo barely even glanced. “Not a threat.”

Oh my god.

FLIP.

Donald Trump, now in a PR stunt to make the Scavenger Guild a part of his second-term program.

Jinwoo actually snorted. “I can’t even make fun of that. He’s irrelevant.”

I flipped so aggressively the remote almost cracked.

A high-profile corporate CEO ranting about the dangers of unchecked power.

Oppa shook his head. “He’s in bed with the arms industry. Would take a week to dismantle him.”

I flipped again.

A military general screaming about the ‘Hunter Threat.’

Jinwoo barely even looked. “CIA asset. War crimes. Documented. Can bring him down whenever.”

Another FLIP.

“Oh. Him? He’s laundering money through a network of international non-profits. That’ll collapse in two years. If he tries anything, I’ll just… accelerate the process.”

FLIP.

FLIP.

FLIP.

One after another, every single terrifying political figure that has haunted my dreams last night—Oppa has already mapped them out, has already calculated their weaknesses, has already figured out how to ruin their entire careers if they step out of line.

And he was just—casually drinking tea while doing it.

I threw the remote.

Jinwoo caught it.

I clutched my head.“WHAT THE HELL, OPPA.”

Jinwoo blinked at me. “What?”

I pointed at the TV. At him. At everything. “YOU—YOU CAN’T JUST—THAT’S NOT NORMAL!”

Jinwoo frowned. Like I had just announced my intention to personally reorganize his entire shadow army for fun.

“..Why?”

WHY.

MOM. HELLO? HELP ME?

Mom put her face in her hands.

I collapsed onto the table.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My brother was not human.

For the first time, I understood why people worshipped him.

I understood why people feared him.

Because the person sitting across from me wasn’t just my idiot older brother who still doesn’t know how to online shop.

He was something else.

Something that had already mapped out the battlefield before anyone even knew they were in a fight.

Something that had already won before the war even started.

Something that had decided—long before today—exactly who was worth sparing and who wasn’t.

I exhaled shakily, my entire body on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“…I need to lie down,” I whispered.

Jinwoo pushed my porridge toward me, stubbornly.

“Eat first.”

Mom reached for the tea.

.

For a full minute, I just… sat there.

Staring at my unholy abomination of an older brother.

Unblinking.

Jaw slack.

Brain fully melted.

Trying—and failing—to process what had just happened.

Jinwoo, meanwhile, was back to eating his damn porridge.

Like he hadn’t just casually exposed half the world’s most powerful figures as corrupt, manipulatable fools.

Like he hadn’t just outlined an entire secret intelligence operation that he runs with literal shadows.

Like he hadn’t just proven that, if he wanted, he could topple entire governments before lunchtime.

I clutched my head. I was having a full-blown existential breakdown, and he was drinking tea.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, voice weak, trembling. “Oh my god.”

Jinwoo paused mid-bite. Looked at me. “What?”

WHAT, HE SAYS.

I snapped.

“DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF?!” I shrieked, standing up so fast my chair almost flipped over.

Mom, who had clearly transcended past human emotion and into the astral plane of parental exhaustion, sighed and rubbed her temples.

I, on the other hand?

I was spiraling.

I turned on my heel, pacing the kitchen floor like a lunatic trying to explain to aliens why the sky is blue.

“This—this is insane. Do you understand how insane this is?! This is next-level, out-of-the-galaxy, conspiracy board-level insanity!””

Oppa just blinked at me, mildly confused. “What’s insane?”

“YOU.” I pointed violently at him. “THIS. THIS WHOLE—WHATEVER THE HELL THIS IS.”

Jinwoo frowned slightly, like I had just accused him of jaywalking. “It’s just basic counterintelligence.”

“IT’S NOT BASIC COUNTERINTELLIGENCE!” I screamed. “YOU ARE LITERALLY OPERATING A ONE-MAN ESPIONAGE NETWORK.”

I turned, desperate for sanity.

“Mom. MOM. DO YOU HEAR HIM?!”

Mom sighed into her tea like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.

“I hear him, Jinah,” she said, so incredibly calm, so incredibly detached, so incredibly done. “I also hear you screaming at eight in the morning.”

“SCREAMING IS THE ONLY REASONABLE RESPONSE TO THIS.”

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly. “Why?”

I threw up my hands so violently my shoulder popped. “BECAUSE—OPPA—WHAT IF THIS EVER GETS OUT?!”

Jinwoo just blinked at me, expression calm. “It won’t.”

I laughed. Hysterically.

“Oh, okay! Sure! It won’t! Because the entire goddamn history of human civilization has proven that nothing ever leaks, and nobody ever finds out dangerous secrets, and definitely not when it’s something as insane as ‘Oh, by the way, Sung Jinwoo has literal spies made of darkness tracking world leaders at all times!’”

Jinwoo blinked again.

“…You make it sound dramatic.”

“IT IS DRAMATIC, YOU—”

I cut myself off. Inhaled deeply.

Then exhaled.

Then took another deep breath.

Mom, watching me closely, pushed the tea pot toward me.

I ignored her.

Instead, I turned back to the menace in front of me.

“If—if—this ever got out,” I hissed, voice shaking, “Do you realize what would happen?”

Oppa, the menace, the problem, the core source of my suffering, actually had the nerve to look vaguely thoughtful.

“…People might panic?”

I lost it.

“PANIC?! OPPA. EVERY GOVERNMENT IN THE WORLD WOULD GO INTO DEFCON ONE.”

Jinwoo blinked, utterly unconcerned.

“…That seems excessive.”

EXCESSIVE.

I grabbed the edge of the table like I needed something to physically anchor me to reality.

“EXCESSIVE?!” I shrieked. “EXCESSIVE?! YOU HAVE A SHADOW ESPIONAGE NETWORK THAT COULD COLLAPSE ENTIRE GLOBAL STRUCTURES OVERNIGHT, SUNG JINWOO.”

Jinwoo paused.

“…I mean,” he said very carefully. “Not overnight.”

I had to sit down.

.

.

“Oh my god.” I buried my face in my hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Jinwoo, the walking personification of unchecked power, continued eating his goddamn porridge.

Mom, a woman who once spent four years in a coma and woke up to discover her son had become a divine being, simply kept drinking her tea like this was just another Wednesday.

And I?

I was mentally drafting my emergency ‘I’m Sorry My Brother Is An Eldritch Nightmare’ apology letter to humanity.

Because if this ever got out—if some poor, unfortunate, foolish idiot ever learned that Sung Jinwoo’s power wasn’t just world-ending in battle, but world-ending in politics, economics, intelligence, and war—

There would be no turning back.

The whole world would either kneel or lose their minds trying to stop him—as if they didn't already.

And I, his stupidly normal little sister, would have to deal with it.

I groaned into my hands.

“…I need a drink,” I muttered.

Jinwoo tilted his head.

“It’s eight in the morning,” he said helpfully.

I shot him a look, already teetering on the edge of madness.

“YOU ARE EIGHT IN THE MORNING.”

Mom choked on her tea.

Jinwoo, not getting the joke, just blinked at me, genuinely confused.

I gave up.

Fully. Completely. Utterly gave up.

I flopped back onto the table, surrendering to fate.

My brother is terrifying.

And I am never getting over this.

The Unholy Global Espionage Hour with Sung Jinwoo vs Jinah's Sanity

No.

No.

This could not be happening.

Because if I accepted this, if I let myself process what had just unfolded at this breakfast table, if I let the horrifying truth of my brother’s words actually settle into my brain, then I had no choice but to acknowledge something that the world had been whispering about since the day he first appeared in his full power:

That Sung Jinwoo was not human.

That my idiot older brother, who once stared blankly at a rice cooker because he forgot how to turn it on, who does not know how to use online banking, who once accidentally wore his T-shirt inside out to a diplomatic summit—

—was NOT beating the omnipresence allegations.

And I could not allow that to be true.

Because I would never emotionally recover from it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I lunged for the remote.

Because no. No. There had to be someone he didn’t have an entire classified report on.

Mom didn’t stop me.

..possibly because she, too, was experiencing the early signs of a stroke.

The TV flickered back on.

A panel of analysts. A world-famous S-rank hunter sitting in the interview chair.

I knew this one, but forgot his name a bit. He was one of the most frequent hunters to be invited on many BBC TV shows. One of the most powerful guildmasters in Europe. Daniel— Darry— something. English names are hard for us Koreans.

So I jabbed my finger at the screen. “HIM?”

Jinwoo glanced up, let out a small, tired sigh, and set his tea down with all the weary patience of a man who had already solved this problem five years ago.

“Ah. Damien Weber.”

I blinked. “Eh?”

Jinwoo barely even looked at me. “Guildmaster of White Tower in France. Controls most of the EU’s S-rank dungeon clearances.”

I stared.

“…And?”

Oppa exhaled, as if I had just asked him what two plus two was.

“He’s been working on establishing an EU-wide hunter union under the pretense of protecting hunters’ rights,” he said, voice calm, clinical, like this was just another Tuesday briefing. “But really, it’s to enforce standardized contract fees and keep smaller independent hunters out of the major dungeon circuit.”

I froze mid-blink.

“…He—what?!”

Jinwoo hummed, unbothered. “It’s not a bad strategy. By controlling how much S-ranks can charge for their services, he can ensure that all high-ranked hunters work under guild regulations instead of freelancing. But the real move? His union proposal also includes an arbitration clause, meaning all disputes go through a board of ‘senior guild leaders’—most of whom are already under him. If it passes, he’ll have a monopoly on who gets lucrative dungeon clearances.”

Mom slowly put down her teacup.

I stared, feeling like I had just been hit over the head with a frying pan.

“If I wanted to take him down,” Jinwoo continued, voice smooth as ever, “I’d start by targeting the secondary guilds backing his proposal. He’s relying on mid-sized guilds feeling threatened by solo hunters, but they don’t realize he’ll undercut them once the big guilds consolidate power. If I leak proof that his regulatory push is actually designed to favor his own guild, he’ll lose most of his support before it even reaches a vote.”

I almost dropped the remote.

Mom, however, took the deepest sip of tea I had ever seen.

And then—Oppa paused. Took another sip, as if he were mulling something over.

“Although,” he said, almost absently, “I don’t really need to do anything drastic. Lennart is also pushing back against it.”

I paused mid-breath. “Wait. Lennart—Germany’s Lennart Niermann?”

Jinwoo nodded, unbothered. “Yeah. He’s arguing that restricting hunters through artificial pricing would lead to more unnecessary civilian casualties.”

I gawked at him. “So wait. You have Germany's strongest hunter and former Monarch War ally arguing against the people trying to control you?”

Jinwoo shrugged. “Lennart’s not stupid. He knows what happens when hunters start valuing contracts more than lives.”

.

.

I swallowed, and switched the channel.

.

.

A new hunter appeared. This time, one of the Middle East’s biggest hunter stars.

A publicly beloved S-rank celebrity.

I jabbed my finger at the screen, voice half-breaking from the sheer weight of the madness I was enduring. “AND HIM?”

Jinwoo finally looked at the screen.

Then, to my absolute horror, he snorted.

“Oh. Karim El-Amin?” He shook his head. “He’s basically a brand. Good fighter, but the people backing him want him to be more of an icon than an actual hunter. His team carefully selects his battles to ensure dramatic wins, but never puts him in a situation where the risk is unpredictable.”

I gawked.

“Then why—”

“Because image is valuable,” Jinwoo said simply, like that was supposed to be an answer that made sense. “They need a face for ‘hunter excellence’ in the region, and Karim fits. He’s young, charismatic, and plays the part of a warrior perfectly.”

He paused, rolling his wrist absentmindedly.

“If I wanted to expose him, I wouldn’t go after his personal fights. Too much effort spent proving they’re staged. Instead, I’d leak how his team routinely bribes dungeon handlers to manipulate rankings.”

I felt my entire brain short-circuit.

“You—what—how do you even know that?!”

Jinwoo blinked at me. “It’s obvious.”

I grabbed a napkin and hurled it at his head. A shadow caught it mid-air instead.

I screamed.

.

.

I switched the channel again. A Russian hunter appeared.

This one, though?

This one, I actually recognized.

I blinked. “Wait. I know him.”

Jinwoo’s expression didn’t change.

“…That one actually hates me.”

I froze.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yuri Orlov,” Jinwoo said. “Shield mage. Showed up in Japan during the Tokyo Giants dungeon break. Made a huge deal about ‘protecting everyone’—got himself a massive payout in money and property before he even stepped into battle.”

I frowned. “…I don’t remember him being that effective?”

Jinwoo took a slow sip of tea. “He wasn’t.”

I stared.

Then it hit me.

I remembered now. Yuri’s shields broke.

He would’ve died.

But then—

Oh.

OH.

“…You saved him,” I said, my voice slowly realizing the tragedy unfolding before me.

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose, looking vaguely tired.

“Yeah.”

I felt a headache forming.

“AND HE STILL HATES YOU?!”

Jinwoo shrugged. “I mean, I didn’t ask him before doing it.”

I gripped my forehead.

“SO HE’S MAD YOU SAVED HIS LIFE?!”

Jinwoo gave me a look. “Jinah, you’re assuming he actually wanted to be saved.”

I blinked.

“What?”

Jinwoo leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable.

“If he had died, he would’ve gone out as a hero,” he said calmly. “The indestructible shield mage, the great protector, giving his life to defend Japan. Instead, he lived—because of me. And now he’s a man whose reputation is tied to the fact that he wasn’t strong enough when it mattered most.”

The room fell silent.

Mom exhaled sharply.

And me?

I felt sick.

I had assumed Yuri hated Jinwoo because he was another bitter, self-important S-rank.

But this?

This was so much worse.

Because I understood it.

Because I could see it in my brother’s face—the part of him that did, too.

“…That’s awful,” I whispered.

Jinwoo didn’t answer.

Not at first.

Then, finally—his voice quieter, almost resigned:

“It happens.”

.

I grabbed the remote and switched the channel again.

Because I couldn’t think about Yuri anymore.

Because if I did, I’d have to think about how many others there were.

How many people had been scooped out of the jaws of death by my brother, only to resent him for it? How many high-level hunters, political figures, and corporate overlords had already been categorized, analyzed, and strategically neutralized before they even knew they were a threat?

How many monsters in human skin had been turned into footnotes in his mental archive, shelved under ‘irrelevant’ until they made the mistake of acting against him?

I was spiraling.

I needed a distraction.

FLIP.

A new hunter appeared. A rising star from South America, one of the strongest guildmasters in Brazil.

I pointed violently. “HIM?”

Jinwoo blinked, glanced at the screen, and let out a small, profoundly unimpressed sigh.

“Hugo Fernandez,” he muttered. “Runs Silver Fang Guild. Strong, but he’s trying to build a mercenary-based hunter system. Less public service, more private military contracts. He’s lobbying to introduce a new hunter classification—one that would allow guilds to operate outside of national jurisdiction.”

I felt my eye twitch.

“…So, a private army?”

Oppa nodded, completely unbothered. “Basically.”

I threw my hands up, because if there was one person on this planet I’d trust with a private army, it sure as hell wasn’t some random Brazilian guildmaster trying to LARP as a warlord.

If anyone was going to have unchecked, terrifying, military-level power at their disposal, it was going to be my deeply overpowered, occasionally exasperating, but at least fundamentally responsible older brother.

“AND YOU ALREADY HAVE A PLAN TO DEAL WITH HIM?!”

Oppa took another calm, serene, emotionally detached sip of tea—

—and somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I could hear his harshest critics screaming the Cursed Three Words™ again.

Cold. Detached. Inhuman.

Ugh.

“If I needed to, I’d expose his negotiations with illegal dungeon traffickers,” he said simply. “He’s already tested out hiring unregistered awakened to clear unlicensed gates. If the Hunter’s Association gets their hands on the proof, his entire operation collapses overnight.”

I stared at him.

I didn’t have anything left to say.

I just—

I collapsed into the couch.

Sung Jinwoo Is a Cosmic Horror and I Am Just a Girl

At some point, I had to accept my reality.

The reality where my brother is not just the strongest hunter alive, but also an unstoppable, inescapable, all-knowing intelligence entity.

He's totally not beating those allegations.

And the only reason the world is still functioning is because he just… doesn’t feel like breaking it.

The only reason international relations haven’t crashed and burned is because Sung Jinwoo is polite enough to let people pretend they still have power.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

I realized that he’s so used to this.

This isn’t even a big deal to him.

Because for him, this is normal.

Watching the entire planet in real-time? Normal.
Knowing every major political scandal before it happens? Normal.
Silently dismantling threats before anyone even realizes they’re threats? Normal.

Holding the fate of every major hunter, politician, and corporate overlord in his hands like a guy deciding which snack to get from a vending machine? Fucking normal.

My brother isn’t human.

I spent all of yesterday crying because the world saw him as something inhuman.

And this morning, I finally understood why.

Because he’s not human.

Not really.

Not anymore.

I let out a slow, shaky exhale.

“…If you ever become a dictator,” I muttered, “I hope you remember I was nice to you.”

Oppa, completely straight-faced, completely sincere, not even a hint of hesitation:

“You’d be fine.”

OH. MY. GOD.

At some point, I just… gave up.

I flopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, completely dead inside.

Jinwoo?

Jinwoo was back to calmly eating breakfast like he hadn’t just singlehandedly destroyed my entire perception of reality.

Mom was still drinking tea like she had personally accepted that nothing in this household was ever going to be normal again.

I was reassessing every decision that led me to this moment.

And somewhere, somewhere out there, I just knew there were entire intelligence agencies running in circles, clutching reports with shaking hands, trying to figure out why they kept losing ground.

And meanwhile, my brother—THE REASON FOR THEIR SUFFERING—was just sitting here, in a hoodie, eating porridge like a regular person.

I closed my eyes.

“…I need to lie down,” I muttered.

Jinwoo pushed a plate of toast toward me.

“Eat again. You'll need your energy for school.”

I stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the toast.

Then at Mom, who was fully dissociating.

Then back at him.

.

.

This was one of those times when I truly understood why the world saw my brother as something inhuman.

I looked at him—not as my overprotective, socially awkward, occasionally exasperating older brother—but as the person the rest of humanity feared and worshiped in equal measure.

And I couldn’t even argue with them.

Because if I weren’t his sister—if I weren’t sitting here, in this tiny kitchen, seeing him sip his tea like this was all so mundane—I’d probably fear him, too.

So I exhaled slowly, running a hand down my face, and muttered,

“…You are terrifying.”

Jinwoo tilted his head.

Then, in the softest, most polite voice imaginable:

“...thank you.”

.

.

For a second, I almost laughed.

Almost.

But something stopped me.

Something in Oppa's voice—

Something small, something fragile, something so subtle, so easy to miss, that I almost ignored it, something that didn’t match the absolute monster of a man who had just unraveled global security with the same effort it took him to check the weather.

I stared at him.

I don’t think I was supposed to notice it.

Jinwoo Oppa had always been good at hiding things.

He had always been good at masking every wound, every fear, every doubt behind that same unreadable expression.

I think, if I hadn’t been his sister, if I weren’t still raw from last night’s breakdown, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

But I did.

I saw the split-second hesitation before he answered.

I saw the way his fingers stilled against the rim of his cup.

I saw the way his shoulders, just for a fraction of a second, tensed—like he was waiting for something else.

Something worse.

And then I realized.

That wasn’t just a polite response.

That was acceptance.

Not casual. Not automatic. Not dismissive.

But resigned.

Like he had heard it so many times before that he already knew what came next.

Like he had learned to brace for it—for people to whisper, debate about him, fear him.

Like he had already rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, waiting for the day it finally happened.

Like some part of him was always waiting for the moment when it wouldn’t come from an enemy, or a stranger, or a politician speaking in hushed, terrified tones—

But from family.

I swallowed.

My mouth felt dry.

And suddenly, my own words—the careless, offhand muttering of “You are terrifying”—felt like they weighed a thousand tons.

I didn’t mean it like that.

I meant it in the way you’d look at the ocean during a storm and realize just how tiny you are.

I meant it in the way you’d stare up at the night sky, swallowed by endless galaxies, and suddenly understand why ancient people took one look and thought, Yep, something up there is definitely playing with us.

But I wasn’t sure if he heard it that way.

I wasn’t sure if he could.

Because the whole world fears him.

And I think—deep down—he’s scared that one day, his family will, too.

And then it hit me.

Like, actually hit me.

This morning.

This whole ridiculous conversation.

The way he stayed home instead of disappearing like usual.
The way he checked my bag, my lunch money, the damn umbrella.
The way he poured my porridge before I could even sit down.

The way he explained everything so plainly, so patiently, so calmly—like he was giving me evidence.

Like he was proving something.

And oh my god.

He was.

He wasn’t just answering my questions.

He was trying, in his own dumb, exasperating, emotionally constipated way, to reassure me.

To tell me—without actually saying it—that I didn’t have to worry about him.

That I didn’t need to be scared for him.

That he was fine.

Oh my god.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid Oppa.

Of course I was going to worry.
Of course everyone was going to worry.

Because how could you not?!

How could you look at him—at all of this, at the sheer scale of his existence—and not feel like you were standing in the wake of a hurricane, completely helpless?

And yet, at the same time—

He was bracing himself.

Not for me to worry about him.

For me to fear him.

For the moment I’d finally see what the world saw.

For the moment I’d stop seeing Oppa, my overbearing, infuriating, hoodie-wearing, world-saving, occasionally dumb older brother—

And see what everyone else did.

And wasn’t that just the dumbest, most unreasonable, absolute worst conclusion he could’ve possibly reached?

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Because now I got it.

Now I understood.

That wasn’t just a polite response.

That was acceptance.

That was him trying to make me feel better, while also quietly preparing for the day I’d see him as a monster, too.

.

.

And I hated it.

I hated that I noticed.

I hated that he even had to think about it.

I hated that he was so used to it that he barely even reacted.

And, most of all, I hated that he thought it was inevitable.

God, he was so stupid.

He could flatten entire armies, he could outthink every intelligence agency on the planet, but somehow, somehow, this dumbass had convinced himself that I—me, the sister who cursed his name every time he teleported away mid-conversation, the sister who held onto him last night like he was about to disappear, the sister who grew up with him, watched him fight, watched him survive—

Would ever be afraid of him.

I opened my eyes.

Then glared at him.

“…You absolute idiot.”

Jinwoo, mid-sip of tea, blinked at me. “Hm?”

I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw my spoon at his head.

Nothing.

Never mind.

I’d deal with his unreasonable, overpowered, emotionally-malfunctioning ass later.

For now?

I just sighed.

And reached for the toast.

Then I paused mid-bite.

A thought—a truly genius, inspired, next-level thought—slammed into my brain like divine revelation.

I slowly set the toast back down.

Turned my head.

Stared at my all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful older brother, who could place a shadow on literally anyone on Earth and get live intelligence on them at will.

Then, in a completely natural and definitely not concerning course of action, I reached into my bag.

Because if Sung Jinwoo’s god-tier surveillance network existed, and I happened to be related to him, then it was only right and fair that I, Sung Jinah, the superior Sung sibling, got to use it for my own purposes.

With the confidence of a woman about to commit a massive abuse of power, I pulled out my most prized possessions.

A pristine, meticulously arranged set of DTS photocards, sleeved in archival-grade plastic, each member looking ethereal, divine, airbrushed to supernatural perfection—the most powerful men in South Korea, next to the one sitting in front of me.

I slammed them onto the table like I was presenting crucial classified documents to the Pentagon.

Then, with the sheer, unshakable authority of a world leader activating a secret spy network, I declared—

"Oppa. Assess their threat level."

.

.

Jinwoo stared.

Then, without even looking away from my face, he slowly turned his attention to the photocards spread across the table.

Then back to me.

Then back to the photocards.

Then back to me again.

“…What,” he finally said.

I leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. “Assess their threat level, Oppa.”

Jinwoo blinked slowly, like I had just asked him to analyze the political infrastructure of an alternate dimension.

“…Their threat level?”

“Yes,” I said gravely. “We need to be prepared.”

Jinwoo rubbed his temples. “Prepared for what, exactly?”

I gestured wildly at the photocards. “For them, obviously!”

Jinwoo gave me the most exhausted look of my life.

“They’re idols, Jinah.”

“And you’re Sung Jinwoo, and yet here we are.”

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose. “Okay, no. Explain to me what you think is happening here.”

I crossed my arms. “They’re powerful men, Oppa. The most famous group on Earth. Their influence is unprecedented. Their reach is global. Their fanbase? A force of nature. And you—” I jabbed a finger at him, voice rising, “—you don’t have a shadow on them?! For security reasons? For contingencies? For insight into the cultural psyche of the modern world?!”

Jinwoo stared at me in dead silence.

.

Then:

“…Are they running a secret government?”

“No, but—”

“Are they controlling dungeons?”

“No, but—”

“Are they actively trying to kill me?”

I opened my mouth—

Then froze.

Slowly, painfully, my shoulders sagged.

I let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing my face.

“…Honestly?” I muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s worse.”

Jinwoo paused mid-sip. “…Worse?”

I gestured weakly at the photocards, looking utterly defeated.

"They’re… your fans now."

.

A beat of silence.

Jinwoo blinked.

Mom snorted into her tea.

I let out an undignified wail.

.

Jinwoo tilted his head, frowning slightly. “I… don’t follow?”

"IT MEANS THEY STAN YOU, OPPA," I groaned, dramatically collapsing against the table. "THEY THINK YOU’RE COOL. THEY RESPECT YOU. THEY DEDICATED A WHOLE ALBUM TO WORLD PEACE BECAUSE OF YOU.”

Jinwoo blinked again, processing. “…I feel like that’s a good thing?”

I sat up violently, eyes wide with betrayal. “GOOD? GOOD?!”

Jinwoo hesitated. “…Not good?”

Mom, clearly trying and failing to suppress her laughter, reached for the teapot. “Oh, this is fun.”

I gripped my hair, fully unraveling. "I just—I just—"

I took a deep breath, eyes wild, hands flailing.

"It’s so cringe, Oppa. SO. CRINGE.”

Jinwoo looked genuinely confused. “How?”

"HOW?! HOW?!" I flailed violently at the air, at existence itself. "DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT MY LIFE WAS BEFORE THIS?"

Jinwoo didn’t answer. Mom was already trying to exit the conversation in real-time.

I didn’t care.

I needed to be heard.

"I WAS A FAN," I declared, pointing to myself like a tragic war survivor. "A FAN. A LOYAL, RESPECTFUL, DELUSIONAL FAN. I BOUGHT MERCH. I VOTED IN AWARD SHOWS. I STREAMED SONGS LIKE A JOB. I GOT INTO INTERNET FIGHTS FOR THEM, OPPA. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Jinwoo sipped his tea. "That seems unnecessary."

"IT WAS A WAY OF LIFE."

Jinwoo nodded slowly, like he was observing a rare and dangerous specimen in the wild.

I gritted my teeth.

"And then you happened."

Jinwoo tilted his head. "I didn't do anything."

"EXACTLY!" I shouted. "YOU DID NOTHING AND YET YOU STOLE THEM FROM ME."

Mom, now fully wheezing into her teacup, finally lost it.

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose. “…Sorry?”

I whipped around to glare at him.

“YOU’RE NOT SORRY AT ALL.”

Jinwoo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “No, not really.”

“You are the worst.”

Oppa shrugged again. “You asked.”

“Jinah,” she said, voice flat, utterly unimpressed. “You stopped liking them because they became your brother’s... fanboys?”

I groaned, burying my face in my arms.

“Mom, they were supposed to be mine." I let out another mournful wail. "I was supposed to be the fan, not them!”

Mom blinked at me. Then, slowly, she turned to Jinwoo.

“…What exactly does that mean?”

Jinwoo sighed, rubbing his temples like he was being unfairly dragged into nonsense. “I don’t know. I don’t have social media.”

Mom turned back to me. “Jinah?”

I lifted my head just enough to whisper the most cursed, most agonizing words of my entire existence.

“…You have no idea what me and Songyi saw during the Melon Awards.”

Jinwoo blinked. "What?"

I slowly lifted my head, staring at nothing.

"The entire industry. Every singer. Every idol. The most famous actors. The legends. The ones who trained for decades to build their careers—"

Jinwoo tilted his head. “Okay…?”

I slammed my hands on the table.

"OPPA. THEY ALL TRIED TO OUTDO EACH OTHER PAYING TRIBUTE TO YOU."

Jinwoo paused mid-sip.

Mom raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

I gestured violently, reliving my trauma.

"IT WASN'T EVEN SUBTLE. IT WAS A WHOLE SEGMENT. THEY HAD A VIDEO. A THEMED STAGE. PEOPLE GAVE SPEECHES. MULTIPLE GROUPS DID DEDICATION STAGES. SONGYI AND I WENT THERE FOR A COMEBACK STAGE AND GOT A SUNG JINWOO APPRECIATION FESTIVAL.”

Jinwoo blinked. "…Oh."

Mom, now glancing at him like he was an alien. “Hm. You went to an awards show expecting to see your favorite idols, and instead, you had to sit through multiple high-production performances dedicated to your brother?”

I threw my arms up. “YES.”

Oppa frowned slightly. “Why would they do that?”

Both Mom and I let out twin strangled noises. "OPPA, YOU SAVED THE WORLD."

Jinwoo looked vaguely thoughtful. "…Oh."

Yeah. Oh.

.

Mom sighed, probably regretting waking up from her coma again.

"Jinah, just pick a different group."

I froze.

Slowly, I turned to look at her.

“…Mom. No.”

Mom shrugged. "Seems like an easy fix."

I clutched my chest, physically recoiling.

"IT DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT."

Jinwoo looked at me, blank. "Just like another group."

"IT DOESN'T WORK LIKE THAT, EITHER."

Mom, now intrigued. “Why not?”

I slammed my hands down.

"Did you hear me? BECAUSE. THEY'RE. ALL. HIS. FANS."

Silence.

Jinwoo paused mid-sip. "...really?"

I gestured frantically. "YOU THINK I HAVEN’T TRIED?! YOU THINK I DIDN’T TRY TO MOVE ON?! THEY’RE ALL HIS FANS. ALL OF THEM. EVERYWHERE."

Jinwoo blinked, processing.

Mom let out a deep, exhausted sigh—the kind that seemed to carry the weight of every decision in her life, especially the one where she had once told Jinwoo to find a normal job.

Jinwoo, looking thoughtful. “That seems excessive.”

I stabbed a finger at him. “OH, DOES IT?”

.

Pressing her fingers to her temples, visibly restraining the headache that her children were giving her, Mom then said with the tone of someone trying to grasp the sheer absurdity of her own life,

"So, what you’re saying is… you’re in the middle of a full-scale existential breakdown because your brother has reached such astronomically stupid levels of fame that every single celebrity you’ve ever liked has now formed an unsolicited, international Sung Jinwoo fan club?"

I nodded so violently.

Mom sighed again, this time deeper, as if mourning the lost possibility of her son settling down with a simple office job. Then, after a long moment of acceptance, she nodded back with the kind of unshaken, Buddha-like serenity that could only come from raising a son who somehow became humanity's greatest protector.

"That sounds like a you problem."

I made a sound. Something primal. Something unnatural. Something that belonged in a cryptid documentary.

Jinwoo, mid-sip of tea, nodded along with perfect, insufferable calm.

“Sounds personal.”

I kicked his shin under the table.

Jinwoo didn’t even blink.

This family was actually an act of violence.

.

The Limits of Omniscience (And the Limits of My Sanity)

I was still face-down on the table, grieving the loss of my idols to my overpowered older brother, when a stray thought drifted into my brain like a live grenade.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

“…Wait.”

Oppa, already reaching for his tea like he was done with today’s nonsense, paused just long enough to give me a wary glance. “What now.”

I squinted at him, scrutinizing his expression like I was solving a government conspiracy. “You really don’t have a shadow on them?”

Oppa sighed. “Jinah, I already said—”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you lying?”

Jinwoo’s exhale was so sharp it could’ve sliced through steel. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Because this entire conversation has been deeply traumatic for me, and I wouldn’t put it past you to let me suffer for comedy purposes.”

Oppa gave me one of his signature exhausted looks. “Jinah.”

Mom, mildly entertained, hummed. “That’s fair, honestly.”

I ignored her and focused back on my brother. “So why don’t you?”

Jinwoo set his teacup down with a quiet clink. “Because I don’t want to go insane?”

I blinked. “Elaborate.”

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly, like he was debating how much of my nonsense he was willing to entertain.

“Jinah,” he said flatly, “do you want to listen to millions of people talking at the same time? Every single second of every single day?”

I opened my mouth—then immediately closed it.

Jinwoo, counting on his fingers now: "You want to hear some guy in Busan argue with his grandma over whether store-bought kimchi is acceptable for family gatherings?"

I snorted. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Or a couple in Berlin break up dramatically in a café?”

Mom, sipping her tea, fully invested now. “What did he do?”

Jinwoo shrugged. “Didn’t like her dog.”

Mom winced. “Oof.”

Jinwoo kept going, ticking off examples like he was reciting a grocery list. “A stock trader in New York spiraling into an identity crisis because his portfolio dropped by two percent?”

I stared.

“Or,” Jinwoo said, deadpan, “a college student in Tokyo pulling an all-nighter, talking to his cat about how life is meaningless?”

I raised an eyebrow. “What does the cat think?”

Jinwoo’s entire face twitched. He set his teacup down with the slow, deliberate movements of a man fighting the urge to flip the entire table over.

"I don't read minds, Jinah."

I blinked. “Oh.”

Jinwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I overhear conversations through my shadows. That’s it. No mind reading. No knowing what someone’s cat is thinking.”

I frowned. “That’s a shame. I bet it had strong opinions.”

Oppa dragged a hand down his face.

Mom, stirring her tea like this was the best show she’d ever seen. “But what if the cat was saying something profound?”

Jinwoo shut his eyes briefly, as if asking the universe for patience. “Then I wouldn’t know,” he muttered, “because, once again, I. Don’t. Read. Minds.”

I waved him off. “Okay, okay. So you only place shadows where it’s necessary.”

Jinwoo hummed. “That’s right.”

I tilted my head. “And they don’t... automatically report to you?”

Jinwoo shook his head. “No. I only hear or see something if I actively check in. Otherwise, it’d be too much noise, too much information, and a complete pain in the ass.”

I frowned. “Wait, so it’s not like… a constant live feed?”

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more tired by the second.

"Jinah. If I had to process everything at once, my brain would probably implode. Or shut down entirely. I have to focus on one thing at a time."

I stared. “And the mana?”

Jinwoo looked at me like I was asking whether water was wet.

“What do you think? Holding shadows on that many people eats through mana like crazy. I don’t waste it unless I need to.”

I sat back, slowly putting the pieces together.

“…So you’re not actually seeing and hearing everything.”

Jinwoo nodded once. “Wouldn’t be possible.”

My fingers tapped against the table, something uneasy curling in my stomach.

“…You choose who you watch.”

Jinwoo stayed silent.

I let out a breath. “You’re deciding what’s important and what’s not.”

He didn’t deny it.

A chill crawled up my spine.

“And if you decide wrong?”

Jinwoo, finally looking at me, softer this time, voice quiet in a way that made my stomach twist.

“…I deal with it.”

I stared.

And for the first time this morning, I had nothing to say.

.

.

Mom, sipping her tea like this was just another Tuesday, sighed. "Shame. I was about to ask my son what Mrs. Kim’s ahjumma group was gossiping about this week."

We both stared—poor Oppa, wide-eyed and horrified, and me… absolutely delighted.

Chapter Text

The Eight Steps of Survival

A tragic firsthand account by Sung Jinah, the long-suffering younger sibling.

Through rigorous, firsthand experience, this guide has compiled the only known methods of enduring an encounter with an emotionally constipated, overbearing older brother of mass destruction.

We will cover the full spectrum of disaster scenarios, including but not limited to:

☑ Preventing him from disrupting your carefully cultivated normalcy. (Spoiler: This will fail.)
☑ Outrunning an unstoppable force. (Spoiler: Also impossible.)
☑ Dealing with the psychological trauma of strangers having in-depth discussions about your brother’s ass.
☑ Surviving mass hysteria at school when he inevitably breaks reality in a public setting.
☑ Avoiding wrongful association when he is mistaken for a potential kidnapper.
☑ Being held hostage in his godforsaken truck while he pretends this is a normal sibling bonding activity.
☑ Realizing too late that he has ignored multiple international crises just to be a nuisance to you personally.

And, most critically—

☑ Coming to terms with the horrifying truth that, despite all your suffering, this deeply unhinged man is, in fact, your family.

The study begins now.

Step One: Accept That Your Family Is Weird and Pray for Normalcy (Spoiler: It Won’t Happen)

(Self-explanatory. My life is a circus.)

Mom casually sipped her tea, eyes flicking over the two of us like we weren’t experiencing some sort of silent psychological battle.

Then she sighed. "Shame," she mused. "I was about to ask my son what Mrs. Kim’s ahjumma group was gossiping about this week."

Jinwoo… stared at her.

Not in his usual "I’m ignoring the world" kind of way. But really stared.

Not quite surprised. Not quite suspicious. Just… watching.

I knew what she was doing.

And I think—just barely, in that subtle way that made my stomach twist—Jinwoo knew too.

She wasn’t saying, I want to watch your battles. She wasn’t saying, I’m okay with the fact that my son can do things no human should be able to do. She wasn't saying, I still think he should have chosen any other career path than being a hunter.

But she was saying, I know what you can do, and I still see you.

I kept my face blank, because we’re Sung women, and we don’t talk about things like this.

Instead, I gasped dramatically, seizing the moment for what it was—the opportunity to make Jinwoo suffer.

"OH," I clapped my hands together, turning to my dear, unfortunate brother. "WAIT. DO YOU KNOW?"

Jinwoo immediately looked at me like I had betrayed him.

I ignored it. "Oppa, be honest. How much do you know?"

"I—" Jinwoo’s mouth opened and closed like a man facing divine judgment.

Mom smirked, swirling her tea. "He’s probably filtering that out."

Jinwoo visibly relaxed. "Obviously."

"Tragic," Mom sighed. "If I had my son’s ridiculous omniscience, I’d at least use it for entertainment."

I nodded sagely. "A waste of power, truly."

Jinwoo narrowed his eyes at me. "You’re enjoying this too much."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"You’re still smiling."

"I just think it’s funny," I said innocently, "that you can track entire nations, but you’re terrified of some old ladies talking about you over persimmon tea."

Jinwoo pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are actually evil."

"I try my best," I said sweetly.

Jinwoo exhaled sharply and didn’t teleport away.

And that’s when I realized something was off.

He was still here.

Still in the kitchen.

Still in his I’m-pretending-I’m-just-an-unemployed-young-man-who-lives-with-his-mom mode.

Jinwoo didn’t do this.

He was always leaving—vanishing before breakfast was even finished, disappearing into the ether to do whatever it is that global powerhouses do.

But not today.

Today, he had stayed.

And now, as I grabbed my bag to finally leave the house—he stood up too.

I froze.

I watched, in slow-motion horror, as my all-powerful, reality-breaking, Shadow-Monarch-turned-stage-five-clinger of a brother put on his shoes.

No.

No, no, no.

I turned my entire body toward him.
"…Oppa?"

"Mm?" Jinwoo tilted his head, fully knowing what he was about to do to my morning.

"What are you doing?"

"Walking with you."

I almost dropped my bag.

"…To where?"

Jinwoo finished adjusting his coat and said far too casually, "To school."

My soul left my body.

.

.

Step Two: Prevent Your OP Older Brother From Acting Like a Normal Person (And Failing Miserably)

(Because Sung Jinwoo has the social stealth of a brick wall.)

I stared at him.

He stared back.

I narrowed my eyes. "You’re joking."

Jinwoo blinked, expression blank. "No?"

"You’re joking," I repeated, because there was no possible reality in which my brother—THE Sung Jinwoo—was planning to just casually walk me to school like he used to.

Like he was still just that broke, exhausted E-rank hunter who made instant ramen for dinner and took the bus like a normal person.

Like he hadn’t turned into a literal global powerhouse who had no business standing at a bus stop like a regular human being.

"Why would I be joking?" he said, like this was a normal thing and not an active threat to my entire social existence.

I put my hands on my hips. "Oppa. Be so for real right now."

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. "Be so for real?"

"Yes. Be so for real."

"I am so for real."

"You are so NOT for real."

Jinwoo exhaled through his nose like I was the ridiculous one. "Jinah, it’s just a walk."

"WITH YOU."

"Yes, with me. That’s how walking together works."

I was going to combust. "No. No, no, no, no, NO."

"Why not?" he asked, feigning innocence.

I flailed my arms like a person on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. "BECAUSE YOU’RE SUNG JINWOO."

Jinwoo blinked. "And?"

"AND YOU DON’T TAKE WALKS. YOU TELEPORT. YOU HAVE A SHADOW DRAGON. YOU HAVE A LITERAL ARMY OF SHADOW SOLDIERS."

"Okay, but—"

"I DON’T CARE, OPPA." I pointed violently at him. "YOU ARE A WORLD-ALTERING FORCE OF NATURE. YOU CANNOT JUST CASUALLY STAND AT A BUS STOP."

Jinwoo tilted his head, pretending to think. "I think I blend in pretty well."

I made a noise only bats could hear.

Jinwoo smirked. "Wait." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a mockingly serious tone. "Is my little sister embarrassed of me?"

I physically convulsed. "YOU ARE THE WORST."

"You wound me," Jinwoo said, placing a dramatic hand over his chest.

I clenched my fists. "If you walk me to school, I will file a restraining order."

Jinwoo hummed. "Mm. I think I’d win in court."

I breathed in. I breathed out. I considered the pros and cons of sibling homicide.

And then—

Jinwoo grabbed something from the umbrella stand.

I watched in horror.

He turned back to me, holding it out.

"Take this," he said.

I looked at the offending object. Then back at him.

"Are you SERIOUS?"

"It might rain."

"IT IS NOT GOING TO RAIN."

"You don’t know that."

"I do know that!" I pointed aggressively at my phone. "I checked the weather app!"

"Weather forecasts aren’t always right."

"WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS."

"I’m just saying," Jinwoo said calmly. "Take it."

"NO."

Mom, who had been watching this absolute circus unfold from the kitchen, let out the deepest sigh of her life.

Then she walked over, plucked the umbrella from Jinwoo’s hand, and shoved it into mine.

"There," she said, tone neutral. "Now leave."

I opened my mouth to protest.

Mom gave me The Look.

I shut up and left.

Jinwoo looked mildly victorious.

And that was how I ended up carrying an unnecessary umbrella while making my way to school.

Or at least, that was the plan—

Until I heard footsteps behind me.

I stopped walking.

I slowly turned.

Jinwoo was following me.

Not like some shadowy assassin.

Not like some low-budget Yakuza boss.

Not like some mysterious bodyguard in a bad romance drama.

Just… casually.

Like this was totally normal.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last several months flying everywhere or teleporting across the world.

"OPPA," I screeched, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???"

Jinwoo, completely deadpan: "Walking with you."

"NO—NO, YOU’RE NOT." I held up a hand. "YOU SAID YOU’D LET ME GO ALONE."

"I did," Jinwoo said. "I’m not stopping you. I’m just walking."

"YOU’RE LITERALLY FOLLOWING ME."

Jinwoo looked vaguely amused. "Is it illegal to take a morning walk?"

I choked on air. "IT’S ILLEGAL IF IT’S THIS STUPID."

Mom, watching from the doorway, took a sip of tea. "Jinah, just run."

I made eye contact with my mother.

She gave me the smallest, most knowing nod.

And I ran.

Jinwoo followed.

And that was how my morning ended with a foot chase against the Shadow Monarch.

Step Three: Run. Just Run

I had spent the last fifteen minutes running, dodging, weaving through alleyways, and executing the most ridiculous escape plan in recorded history. And yet, no matter what I did, no matter which way I turned, he was still there.

Not chasing me. Not even pretending to try.

Just… existing.

Comfortably keeping pace without so much as a pause, like I was just leading him on a brisk morning jog.

Every time I darted around a corner and threw a glance behind me, expecting to see nothing, expecting to have finally lost him, I would catch the faintest glimpse of a familiar figure—too relaxed, too unbothered, just there.

At some point, I realized the running was useless.

At some point, I gave up.

I came to a sharp stop on the sidewalk, planting my feet and taking a deep, slow breath to keep from losing my mind entirely.

A moment later, Jinwoo slowed to a stop beside me.

Not winded. Not even fazed.

I had been fighting for my life, and he looked like he had just gone on a casual morning stroll.

The early morning sun cast his shadow beside mine, stretching long against the pavement. I glared at it like I could physically banish him from my existence through sheer force of will.

Oppa wasn’t even looking at me.

He was watching a pigeon.

A literal pigeon.

It fluttered near the curb, pecking lazily at a discarded napkin, and my all-powerful elder brother looked mildly interested, like the bird’s daily routine was more engaging than my entire existence.

I snapped.

"OPPA."

Jinwoo finally turned his attention back to me, mildly confused. "Hm?"

I inhaled sharply. "What. Are. You. Doing."

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly, like I was the crazy one. "Walking."

I made a strangled sound. "Walking where?"

He blinked. "…Somewhere."

"YOU’RE FOLLOWING ME."

Jinwoo lifted an eyebrow, genuinely unbothered. "Am I?"

"YES."

He glanced around, then back at me. "We happen to be going in the same direction."

I choked on air. "YOU LIVE IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION."

"Do I?"

"YES."

Jinwoo paused, considering. "Huh. Interesting."

I was going to combust.

"Oppa, be serious."

"I am."

"You—" I gestured toward the ground, then toward him, then at the entire universe. "You don’t do this. You’re always busy. You’re always teleporting away before breakfast. You have actual things to do. You don’t just—just—"

I waved my arms wildly again, as if that would help the words come out.

Jinwoo watched me carefully, tilting his head, expression unreadable.

"Don’t I?" he asked.

I clutched my head, barely restraining the urge to scream.

"NO!" I practically shrieked. "You don’t!"

Jinwoo blinked. "Hm."

"Don’t ‘hm’ me!" I pointed accusingly. "You’re Sung Jinwoo! You’re too busy controlling international economies or scaring the government or making presidents cry to be out here walking next to me like some dad on a morning jog!"

Jinwoo tilted his head, genuinely considering this. "I don’t think I’ve ever made a president cry... yet."

"That’s not the point!"

He hummed thoughtfully. "It kind of feels like it is."

It made me even angrier. He's not taking this seriously at all.

And then—

"Good morning, Jinah. Sung-nim."

The voice came from behind us.

I turned just in time to see Mr. Han, our downstairs neighbor, strolling past with his dog.

He nodded at Jinwoo, like this was a completely normal sight.

Jinwoo, completely unfazed, nodded back.

"Good morning, Han-seonsaeng," he said, voice perfectly polite, perfectly neutral, as if he wasn’t actively ruining my life.

Mr. Han hummed. "Working overtime again?"

Jinwoo tilted his head. "Huh?"

Mr. Han let out a small huff, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip on his dog’s leash. "They overwork young people too much at your workplace."

The way he said it—offhanded, like it was an ongoing complaint rather than a new observation—made me squint.

Jinwoo, not one to turn down a flawless disguise, straightened slightly. "Ah. Yes. You know how it is."

Mr. Han sighed, grumbling to himself. "No respect for work-life balance these days."

Jinwoo nodded sagely. "Tragic, really."

I blinked.

No, wait. What?

How was this a conversation that had happened before?

Mr. Han gave Jinwoo one last knowing nod, then turned to me. "Have a good day at school, Jinah."

I barely managed a nod before he strolled away, his dog giving Jinwoo a polite tail wag before following.

I stared at them, brain buffering.

Jinwoo, on the other hand, looked extremely pleased with himself.

"See?" he said, utterly smug. "Totally normal."

I slowly turned my head, scanning the street.

Everything was normal.

Too normal.

Mrs. Choi was hanging her laundry.

Mr. Kim was sipping his usual morning coffee.

Youngsoo and Minji were arguing over some cat video on their phones.

No one was staring at him.

Not even a glance.

And now that I was thinking about it, had anyone in our neighborhood ever looked at him for more than a second?

I frowned—because I kinda needed them to act normal and recognize the most famous hunter on the planet standing right there in broad daylight so they'd bother him and I could shake him off.

But because they apparently wouldn't—

I let out a sharp laugh, one that didn’t sound particularly friendly.

"Oh my god, are you really this clueless?" I scoffed. "Since when have you ever had time to do stupid things like this? Since when do you have time for me?"

The second I said it, I regretted it.

Because it wasn’t true.

Not in the way it sounded.

But Jinwoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all, really.

And that—that was worse.

I should’ve stopped.

But I didn’t.

Because something in me was burning, twisting, lashing out like a cornered animal.

"You don’t get to act like this is normal," I snapped. "You don’t get to just show up out of nowhere and act like I need you hovering over me like some freakishly overpowered parent."

Still, no reaction.

Which made it worse.

"I’m fine." I kept going, my voice rising. "I was fine before you decided I was suddenly some problem you had to solve! You’re treating me like I’m some… some weak little sister who doesn’t know how to handle things! Like I haven’t been handling things my whole life!"

That landed.

Not much.

Not in an obvious way.

But it was there—a faint flicker in his expression. A pause.

And for a second, just a second, I thought maybe he’d say something.

Maybe he’d argue back. Maybe he’d tell me I was wrong.

Maybe he’d actually tell me what this was all about.

But instead—

Jinwoo just exhaled.

A long, slow breath through his nose.

"Okay," he said.

Flat. Simple.

Like nothing had just happened.

I blinked. "…Okay?"

Jinwoo nodded once. "Okay. I won’t follow you."

Just like that.

I squinted at him. "That’s it?"

"That’s it."

I narrowed my eyes. "You’re really not going to argue?"

Jinwoo just shrugged. "You don’t want me here. So I won’t be here."

Something about the way he said it made something tighten in my chest.

But I ignored it.

Because I should be happy.

This was what I wanted.

I didn’t look back at him.

Didn’t wait to see if he actually left.

Didn’t stop to think about why I suddenly felt like the argument had ended too easily.

I just walked away.

Stepped onto the bus, swiped my card, took my usual seat, and stared out the window.

Everything was back to normal.

I had won. I had actually made him stay behind.

And, most importantly?

I could go to school without a national emergency breaking out in the middle of morning rush hour.

Because let’s be real—if I hadn’t stopped him, if I hadn’t made a scene, he would’ve just strolled onto this bus like an oblivious cryptid and completely derailed everyone’s morning commute.

Someone would’ve screamed.

Some poor office worker trying to mind his business would’ve dropped his entire briefcase.

Students would’ve snapped so many photos we’d all be temporarily blinded.

Some elderly grandma might have tried to bless him with holy water.

And I?

I would’ve been the NPC standing next to him.

Because that’s what happens when Sung Jinwoo enters the room.

The world rearranges itself around him.

But today?

Today, I got to exist in my own space.

No whispers. No cameras. No reporters hunting for a quote from ‘the Shadow Monarch’s little sister.’

Just a normal, peaceful bus ride to school.

I sighed and leaned my forehead against the cool window, shutting my eyes.

Maybe if Oppa was going to worry so much about my life, he could start by worrying about this.

,

,

Step Four: Besties, Betrayal, and Banned Topics at Lunch

Lunch was supposed to be my safe zone.

A time to replenish my energy, scroll on my phone, and pretend my life was normal for approximately thirty minutes.

Instead, Songyi had slammed her tray onto the table like she was about to issue a court summons and was now staring me down like a debt collector.

"Talk."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Talk. Spill. Explain. Rant. Whatever gets me the story."

I sighed, poking at my food like it had personally committed war crimes. "Songyi—"

"Jinah. I walked into school today expecting the usual—maybe a mild crisis, a funny complaint, the daily installment of ‘Jinah suffering for my entertainment.’ But then you show up looking like a war refugee, and I hear whispers about you having a full-blown public showdown with your brother this morning."

I groaned. "It wasn’t a showdown."

"You were seen sprinting through the neighborhood like a GTA side character."

"I WAS TRYING TO ESCAPE."

She pointed. "SO IT WAS A SHOWDOWN."

I grabbed a spoonful of rice and shoved it into my mouth just to avoid responding.

Songyi leaned in, eyes glinting. "Go on. Tell me everything."

I groaned again.

"Fine. Oppa decided to follow me to school today."

Songyi blinked. Then snorted. "Wait. Like when he was an E-rank?"

"YES."

"Like—when he was just your weird, overworked brother who carried your backpack sometimes?"

"YES."

Songyi’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas.

"That’s so funny."

"IT’S NOT FUNNY, SONGYI."

"IT’S HILARIOUS."

I gestured wildly. "IMAGINE YOU’RE JUST TRYING TO LIVE YOUR LIFE, AND YOUR BROTHER—THE LITERAL MONARCH OF SHADOWS—DECIDES TO ESCORT YOU TO SCHOOL LIKE A CRINGEY DAD."

Songyi collapsed onto the table, wheezing. "Oh my god. I need to see security footage."

"IT'S NOT A JOKE. I TRIED TO LOSE HIM. I RAN. I TOOK A DETOUR. I DID PARKOUR."

"Jinah. Be honest. Did you actually do parkour, or did you just step over a traffic cone and feel cool?"

"THAT’S NOT THE POINT."

She wheezed. "Did he at least let you go?"

I stabbed my rice. "Eventually. But only after I basically yelled at him to stop acting like I’m some delicate glass figurine that’s gonna break if he’s not watching."

Songyi’s laughter faded just a little.

"You’re still mad."

"Of course I’m mad!" I huffed. "He's been weird since yesterday. And I know why."

Songyi raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

I scowled. "Because of my breakdown."

That wiped the amusement off her face.

She sat up straighter, more alert. "What happened?"

I hesitated.

Then—

I sighed. "Yesterday was… a lot."

Songyi waited, expectant.

I rubbed my temples. "First, I walked past a group of fangirls having a serious academic discussion about..."

I hesitated.

Then I whispered it.

"Oppa’s ass."

The second the cursed words left my lips, I felt the trauma resurface in 4K Ultra HD.

Songyi leaned forward, mouth parted, eyes wide—

And then, the smirk.

The betrayal.

"Come again?"

I growled. This bitch.

"THEY TALK ABOUT HIS ASS, SONGYI."

Half the lunchroom turned.

Songyi choked so violently she nearly ascended.

"Jinah-"

"I WALKED PAST A GROUP OF GIRLS, AND THEY WERE HAVING A FULL-ON DEBATE ABOUT HIS ASS. LIKE IT’S A SCIENCE PROJECT. LIKE THEY’RE WRITING A RESEARCH PAPER.""

Songyi slapped the table, wheezing. "STOP."

"I CAN'T STOP. BECAUSE THEY WON’T STOP." I clutched my head. "WHY DO THEY TALK ABOUT HIM LIKE HE’S A LIMITED-EDITION LUXURY PRODUCT?"

Songyi gasped for air, tears forming in her eyes.

"HE IS, THOUGH."

I threw a chopstick at her. "TRAITOR."

She dodged, cackling. "No, but really. I don’t get why you’re so surprised. Everyone talks about your brother. I heard an ahjumma at the grocery store call him ‘built like a premium beef cut.’"

I stared at her, horrified. "I’m gonna be sick."

"Your suffering fuels me."

I groaned, dropping my head onto the table. "I hate my life."

Songyi hummed. "See, that’s crazy, because I love your life."

I squinted at her, betrayed.

She smiled innocently. "Speaking of which—how’s our Sung Jinwoo doing?"

I snapped upright. "OUR?!"

She shrugged. "Listen, as a nation, we’ve collectively adopted him. He belongs to the people now."

"HE’S NOT A PUBLIC UTILITY."

"But imagine if he was," she mused. "Like, need someone to clear a dungeon? Boom. Need the economy fixed? Bam. Need someone to personally deliver your parcels at light speed?"

"STOP."

She grinned. "Hey, as your best friend, I think I deserve a one-time-use favor from the world’s most powerful man. You know, like a coupon."

I scowled. "There will be NO bestie coupons for my brother."

"Pity." She picked up her spoon. "So what’s actually bothering you?"

I sighed.

For a second, I debated brushing it off.

But then I thought about how my mother had taken my emotional breakdown like it was just Tuesday’s weather update.

And how my brother had responded to it by turning into the overbearing, all-seeing eye of Mordor.

And I thought about how much I just…

Needed someone to actually listen.

So I took a deep breath.

"People don’t just obsess over him." I stared down at my tray. "Some of them want him dead."

Songyi’s face darkened immediately.

I tapped my chopsticks against my bowl, voice tight. "Governments. Hunters. People who think he’s too powerful to exist. People who want to neutralize him."

She stayed silent.

I scoffed. "And the worst part? Some of them act like he deserves it. Like he should be eliminated for being ‘too dangerous.’"

Songyi’s grip on her spoon tightened.

I scoffed. "Like, some dungeon breaks? If Oppa doesn’t show up to personally clean up the mess, people start talking about how ‘he let innocent people die.’"

Her jaw tensed.

I shook my head, voice flat with disbelief. "They act like he’s some all-seeing god who should be able to predict every single disaster before it happens. But when he does interfere too much? When he actually tries to change things? Then suddenly, he’s ‘too powerful’ and ‘a global threat.’"

Songyi muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "dumbasses."

I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "Like, what do they even want from him? To be everywhere at once? To personally hold everyone’s hands and tuck them into bed at night?"

She hummed thoughtfully. "I mean. I wouldn’t say no."

I shot her a deadpan look.

She grinned. "Sorry, reflex. Please continue."

I rolled my eyes, stabbing at my rice. "What am I supposed to do? Tell Sung Jinwoo to be careful? Like that’s gonna help."

Songyi gave me a look. "I mean… yeah?"

I scoffed. "Yeah, and you know what his version of ‘careful’ is?"

I opened my mouth to answer.

And then I froze.

Because I had almost said it.

Almost blurted out that his version of "careful" was watching the entire world at all times. That he had spies everywhere. That he already knew who was after him before they even made a move.

I had almost said all of that.

And I was the one who told him if this ever got out, it would be chaos.

I cleared my throat. "Never mind."

Songyi narrowed her eyes. "…What do you mean, ‘never mind’? That was suspicious as hell."

I shoved rice into my mouth. "Mmmm nope. Don’t worry about it."

"Jinah."

"Moving on."

Songyi glared at me, but let it go.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while.

Then, after a few minutes, I sighed. "Honestly, at this point, I’m waiting for someone to just straight-up blame him for climate change."

Songyi snorted. "Give them a few months."

I groaned. "I need to go lie down."

She grinned. "Wanna skip class?"

I let out the most exhausted laugh of my life. "No, I need at least one normal thing today."

She sighed dramatically. "Boring, but okay."

I shook my head, poking at my rice.

This helped.

Not completely.

But at least I didn’t feel like I was going to explode anymore.

And maybe that was enough for now.

.

.

Step Five: The Jinx, The Truck, and The Overprotective Disaster Brother

(In which Oppa is the worst at disguises, the school erupts into mass hysteria, and somehow, the police get involved.)

For the first time all day, things felt… normal.

Or at least, as normal as they could be when your older brother was an eldritch being who could fold reality in half if he felt like it.

The final bell rang, students poured out of the classrooms, and the usual hum of post-school chaos filled the halls. Some people were racing to beat the rush at the snack carts outside, others were heading straight home, and I was just relieved to finally have a moment where I wasn’t dealing with my brother’s overbearing nonsense.

Songyi and I walked at a leisurely pace, our earlier conversation settling into the background as the comfort of routine took over. This was how things were supposed to be. Just two students heading home, just another regular day—

Then we stepped outside.

And my stomach dropped.

Songyi stopped so abruptly that I nearly crashed into her. "Jinah," she whispered. "Tell me I’m hallucinating."

I already knew I wouldn’t be able to.

Still, I followed her gaze, hoping—praying—that maybe she had spotted something else, anything else. But no.

There, standing just past the front gates, clad in the most blatantly suspicious hoodie in existence, leaning far too casually against Dad’s old red truck, was none other than Sung Jinwoo.

My brother.

The Shadow Monarch.

Sung Jinwoo. In a parking lot.

Waiting.

For me.

My breath caught in my throat, the reality of what I was seeing slamming into me at full force. The truck alone was bad enough—why the hell was he even using that thing? He had teleportation. He had Kaisel. He had an entire army of supernatural entities at his disposal, and yet here he was, standing next to a rusty, decades-old piece of family nostalgia like this was just another day.

I felt my hands twitch. My survival instincts screamed at me to run.

Songyi grabbed my arm, voice shaking with barely-contained delight. "Your brother," she whispered, "is so bad at disguises."

I inhaled sharply. "I know."

"Why is he wearing the hoodie?"

"I don’t know."

"Does he think it actually helps?"

"I don’t know."

"Why—" she gestured wildly at the truck, her eyes gleaming with unholy amusement "—why is he using this? He could teleport. He could summon a dragon. He could bend the laws of space-time. But he picked this."

I gritted my teeth. "I. Don’t. Know."

And then, as if to make it so much worse, Jinwoo looked up and finally spotted me.

His face brightened.

And then—

He waved.

Like this was totally normal.

Like he wasn’t Sung Jinwoo, standing beside a truck that belonged in a junkyard, outside a public high school.

And that’s when the crowd started to notice.

The murmurs began, faint at first, just little snippets of sound carried by the breeze. I could feel it building, spreading, creeping through the student body like wildfire.

"Wait… is that…"

"Who’s that guy? He looks familiar."

"No way, it can’t be—"

"It kinda looks like Sung Jinwoo, but…"

"But why would Sung Jinwoo be here?"

"Why would he be waiting in a parking lot? Why would he need a truck?"

It was happening. The Myth was solidifying.

The whole cursed Myth that Oppa had become more than just a Hunter after what he did to Antares and the Monarchs. That he had become something else entirely.

There had always been rumors—growing, multiplying with every impossible thing he survived. Some people truly believed he wasn’t human anymore. That he had ascended beyond things like hunger, exhaustion—that he didn’t even sleep.

And the worst part?

The people who believed it weren’t just conspiracy theorists. They weren’t lunatics in internet rabbit holes.

They were normal people. People with common sense. People I passed by on the streets just yesterday, people who should know better.

And yet, they believed it.

I wanted to correct them.

But how could I, when Oppa never did?

There were entire forums dedicated to trying to prove whether or not he even needed to eat. Some people swore there wasn’t a single recorded photo of him holding food. Others insisted his physical body was just a construct at this point. That he wasn’t just powerful—he was something beyond.

And now?

Now he was just standing there.

In broad daylight. In a normal parking lot. With an old truck.

And no one knew how to process it.

The murmurs grew louder.

"No way, that’s not him."

"It can’t be. Sung Jinwoo wouldn’t just be here."

"Yeah, no way. I heard he doesn’t even eat food anymore. He wouldn’t be standing in a school lot like some random guy."

"But what if it is him?"

"Then why does he have a truck?"

That was apparently the dealbreaker.

Jinwoo having a mundane, human vehicle was apparently so reality-breaking that my entire school just collectively lost its mind.

At first, the reaction was divided.

For the older students—the ones who had been here during that insanely-traumatic orc attack— their reaction wasn’t disbelief. It was something closer to cognitive dissonance.

They knew exactly what Sung Jinwoo looked like. They had seen him up close before—when he had descended like an avenging god to body an entire army of orcs in our school gym.

Some of them had even been to my house back when he was just my loser older brother who played too many RPGs and microwaved rice at 3 AM.

So they didn’t question whether it was really him.

They questioned why.

"Okay, so that is definitely Sung Jinwoo."

"But… why is he here?"

"Why is he using a truck?"

"He has a dragon. A literal dragon. And he picked a truck?"

"What is happening right now."

"Wait, wait—does this mean he actually drives?"

"HE HAS A LICENSE?!"

I wanted to curl up and die.

Meanwhile, the newer students—the ones who had never actually seen him in person, only knew him as a myth, a legend, a shadow in the night—

Did not have the same reaction.

Because while the upperclassmen were busy debating whether or not my all-powerful brother had legally registered for a driver’s license, the younger students were starting to freak out.

A particularly loud student clutched their chest, eyes wide with sheer, unfiltered horror.

"HOW DARE YOU."

Their friend, who had been slowly backing away like they were witnessing an exorcism in real time, flinched. "H-huh?"

"HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST THE SHADOW MONARCH WOULD STAND IN A FILTHY PARKING LOT LIKE SOME REGULAR MORTAL?!"

I stared.

I blinked.

Was I watching someone have a religious experience over my brother’s lack of a chauffeur?

Their friend looked like they were one second away from crawling into a storm drain to escape this conversation. "I—WHAT?!"

The fanatic was undeterred. Their voice rose in pitch, hands flailing, their entire soul personally offended by the mere existence of Dad’s old truck.

"DO YOU THINK HE DRIVES?! DO YOU THINK HE SITS IN TRAFFIC?! DO YOU THINK SUNG JINWOO OBEYS SPEED LIMITS?!"

I choked.

I actually choked.

Meanwhile, the Paranormal Skeptics™ were still arguing amongst themselves.

"But what if it is him?"

"Then why would he have a truck?"

"EXACTLY." the fanatic screeched.

"SO HE’S NOT HIM?!"

"NO, HE IS—BUT HE WOULD NEVER BE HERE."

"THAT MAKES NO SENSE."

"I KNOW."

I physically clutched my head.

This. This was what my life had become.

I barely had time to process the philosophical breakdown happening ten feet away from me before another group of freshmen huddled together in actual fear.

"If that’s not Sung Jinwoo," one of them whispered, glancing between my brother and the truck like she was witnessing a government cover-up in real-time, "then who is he?"

A few students turned toward her, confused.

"But it is," someone else said.

"Is it, though?"

A nervous pause.

"Would Sung Jinwoo really… just be standing in a parking lot?"

"He doesn’t even go anywhere normally."

"Yeah, I heard he doesn’t even eat food anymore."

I physically recoiled.

"That’s true!" one of them said, eyes wide with fervor. "There’s no photo evidence of him eating! There’s no footage of him sitting down for a meal! Have you ever seen a single candid picture of him eating?!"

"Oh my god, you’re right."

"HE TRANSCENDED HUMAN LIMITATIONS."

"HE DOESN’T NEED FOOD."

Oh my god.

I was going to die in this parking lot.

At this point, two separate factions had formed—

• The Absolute Jinwoo Fanatics™, who were one step away from constructing a holy shrine in the school courtyard.
• The Paranormal Skeptics™, who were rapidly convincing themselves that he was just some guy in a truck.

And then, because my life is a joke, someone said the words that sealed my fate.

"Wait. If that’s not Sung Jinwoo… then who is he?"

The panic rippled outward.

"He’s been standing there for a while."

"He’s in a hoodie."

"He’s wearing a second-rate pair of sunglasses."

I had to snort at that one. Because yeah. My all-powerful older brother, the man who had single-handedly reshaped the world order, had chosen the cheapest, most gas-station-looking sunglasses imaginable.

Like. Not even designer.

Not even the ‘cool guy in a spy movie’ type.

No, this man was out here looking like an undercover dad at Disneyland.

Someone else sucked in a sharp breath.

"Wait. Is that… a face mask?"

I buried my face in my hands.

Because, of course. Of course, it was.

I peeked through my fingers, and there it was—one of those plain, generic black masks that did nothing to hide his distinctive features.

This was a man who could bend the very fabric of space-time, and he thought a hoodie, cheap sunglasses, and a face mask were enough to make him unrecognizable.

"Bro," someone whispered, shaking their head in disappointment. "That’s the weakest disguise I’ve ever seen."

"HE LOOKS MORE SUSPICIOUS THIS WAY."

Another student, still staring in growing horror, asked the question that truly sealed our fate.

"…Is he waiting for someone?"

And suddenly, it happened.

The absolute worst-case scenario.

"Oh my god. What if he’s a kidnapper?"

I felt my soul ascend to another plane of existence.

It didn’t matter that half the school already knew I was his sister. It didn’t matter that there were literal pictures of us existing in the same household. Paranoia was contagious, and logic was officially dead.

I watched, horrified, as a student pulled out their phone.

And dialed.

Songyi physically recoiled.

Jinwoo just tilted his head slightly, like a confused cat.

The girl who made the call clutched her phone to her ear, voice dead serious.

"Yes, I’d like to report a suspicious person outside the school—"

"OH MY GOD." I grabbed Songyi. "WE HAVE TO GO."

Songyi, to her credit, was already moving.

"NOPE. NOPE. DON’T KNOW HIM."

And we bolted.

And that was how the younger sister of the most powerful hunter in existence and her best friend full-on sprinted out of a parking lot while their entire school lost its collective mind and called the police on a literal god.

Step Six: I Would Like to Publicly Announce That I Do Not Know This Man

(In which my brother's myth gets worse, teleportation escalates things instead of fixing them, and somehow, I still end up in his stupid truck.)

The student was still on the phone, her voice hushed but urgent, as if she truly believed she was witnessing the prelude to a crime.

"Yes, I’d like to report a suspicious person outside the school—"

Panic exploded through my system, every rational thought in my brain screeching to a halt. I wasn’t sure what I expected from today, but watching my brother get arrested for literally standing near a truck wasn’t on the list.

Songyi, sharp as ever, was already grabbing my arm and pulling me back toward the school gates.

"Jinah," she whispered, her voice a tight mixture of amusement and very real concern. "We need to get out of here."

"We absolutely do."

And just like that, we were running.

Because I was not—**I repeat, NOT—**going to be standing here when the police arrived to investigate the Shadow Monarch for a suspected human trafficking attempt.

We had barely made it halfway across the lot, our shoes scuffing against pavement, when the space in front of us warped.

Jinwoo appeared.

No build-up. No sound. No ripple of displaced air. Just empty space one second, and my overpowered, emotionally-constipated brother the next.

I barely stopped myself from slamming straight into his chest. Songyi let out a sharp, startled gasp beside me, her feet scraping against the pavement as she forced herself to a sudden stop.

Jinwoo blinked, looking down at us with an expression of mild confusion.

"…Why are you running?"

There was a pause. A long, deep, universe-expanding pause in which my brain momentarily failed to reboot.

The whispers behind us shifted.

Something about the crowd’s energy changed.

I didn’t notice it at first, too focused on the sheer nerve of my brother appearing out of nowhere like some cryptid in the wilderness. But then—

Someone exhaled, sharp and shaky, as if all the pieces had finally clicked into place.

"That was—"

Another voice, weak and barely above a whisper.

"He teleported."

The chaos collapsed.

The rumors, the suspicions, the stupid kidnapper theory—all of it shattered in an instant.

Because there was only one person who could just appear out of thin air out of shadows like that.

There was only one person whose mere presence warped logic and reality.

There was only one person who had the power, the history, the sheer impossible existence—

A ripple of understanding swept through the students, and the panic morphed into something much, much worse.

The whispers turned sharper, carrying a new edge of certainty.

"That’s not a kidnapper."

"That’s—"

"That’s H-HUNTER SUNG JINWOO."

And just like that, the entire school lost its collective mind.

It wasn’t hysteria anymore. It wasn’t confusion.

This was something else.

Gasps rang out from all directions. Someone physically dropped their bag, the contents spilling onto the pavement unnoticed. A freshman, eyes wide and full of existential horror, actually sank into a squat like their legs had given out from sheer disbelief.

They had called the police.

On him.

On the Sung Jinwoo.

The girl holding the phone—the one who had made the call—visibly locked up.

She was still clutching the device in her hand, fingers wrapped so tightly around it that her knuckles were white. Her gaze was frozen on my brother’s face, her lips slightly parted, her expression frozen in a mix of pure shock and mounting horror.

I had never seen someone realize their own mistake so quickly and so viscerally.

Jinwoo, ever composed, ever calm, showed no sign of offense. If anything, he just looked a little puzzled.

Then, in an effort to be helpful, he stepped forward—slow and measured, not the least bit threatening—and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

The girl flinched so violently that her phone slipped from her grip and went airborne.

Jinwoo caught it effortlessly before it could hit the pavement.

The entire school inhaled at once, the sound deafening in its silence.

The girl turned, her face ashen, her entire body visibly locked in place.

Jinwoo, ever polite, offered the phone back to her. His voice was low, calm, carefully non-threatening.

"You don’t have to call the police," he said. "I’m just here to pick up my sister."

It was meant to be reassuring.

It had the exact opposite effect.

The girl remained frozen, not even blinking as she stared at him. Her hands were still shaking, hovering near her chest as if she wasn’t sure whether to take the phone or start praying.

Her lips parted, like she wanted to speak, but no words came out. It was as if she was searching for something—anything—that wouldn’t make this situation worse.

But really, what could she even say?

Sorry for mistaking you for a kidnapper?

Sorry for calling emergency services on the most powerful person on the planet?

Sorry for ever not believing, even for a second, that Sung Jinwoo would do something as human as drive a truck?

Her fingers twitched.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, high-pitched and trembling, she blurted out—

"I’M SO SORRY. PLEASE DON’T ERASE ME FROM EXISTENCE."

Something in my chest twisted.

Oppa didn’t react.

Not really.

There was no flash of annoyance, no offense, no sign that the accusation had truly gotten under his skin.

But in the briefest of moments, just for a fraction of a second, his fingers curled slightly at his sides, like a reflexive twitch.

There was something there.

Something I couldn’t name.

Not sadness, not anger—just… something.

A moment later, he sighed, and whatever it was, it was gone.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

But she didn’t respond.

Because I think we all knew the answer.

Not that he would.

But that he could.

And sometimes, that was enough.

.

Jinwoo turned back to me, already moving toward the truck like none of this had ever happened. "Anyway, we should go. Come on."

I had a very, very bad feeling.

I narrowed my eyes. "Go where?"

He gestured behind him.

At Dad’s old, barely-functioning truck.

I felt my entire soul leave my body.

"…No."

Jinwoo frowned. "What do you mean, ‘no’?"

"I mean no. Absolutely not."

"I’m driving you home."

"YOU CAN TELEPORT."

He sighed, exasperated. "I know. But I want to drive."

"WHY."

He looked at me. And then, with all the composure and weight of a man explaining quantum mechanics to a particularly slow child, he said—

"Because I want to."

I felt my brain short-circuit.

Songyi, who had been watching this with morbid fascination, exhaled. "Your brother is unhinged."

Jinwoo was already walking toward the truck.

He stopped a few steps ahead, then turned back.

And, as if this wasn’t already humiliating enough—

He waved.

Like a dad picking up his kid from soccer practice.

I turned to Songyi.

She turned to me.

We debated our entire existence.

Then, reluctantly, with the crushing weight of inevitability hanging over us—

We walked to the truck.

Step Seven: The Great Truck Hostage Situation of the Sung Family

(or: How to Survive an Overbearing Brother in a Truck You Did Not Consent to Enter)

(In which my brother is an emotionally constipated cryptid, I am held hostage in a truck, and Songyi provides live commentary on my suffering.)

The truck’s interior smelled like aged upholstery and tragic nostalgia.

I scowled at the familiar scent, shifting uncomfortably as I buckled my seatbelt, my movements stiff and begrudging. This wasn’t just any truck. This was Dad’s truck. The one Jinwoo used to drive back when he was an E-rank, when he was just my loser brother who worked too much and slept too little, before he turned into an interdimensional eldritch horror with abandonment issues.

Back when things were—I don’t know. Simpler.

And now?

Now, despite possessing the literal ability to shadow teleport, despite owning a dragon that could carry us home in five minutes, my brother had chosen to personally drive me home in a relic of our family’s financially struggling past, in a vehicle that probably had a carbon footprint larger than an actual dungeon break.

I sighed through my teeth. "I want you to know, I am in hell right now."

Jinwoo, entirely unbothered, adjusted the rearview mirror. "Put on your seatbelt properly."

"It is on properly."

"You’re sitting like you’re trying to exit your own body."

"Because I am."

Songyi, seated comfortably in the back, stretched her legs and patted the worn leather seat like she was greeting an old friend. "Ah, yes. The legendary Sung family truck. It’s been a while."

I shot her a betrayed look. "You don’t have to sound so nostalgic about it."

Jinwoo, ever the menace, hummed. "She’s been in it more times than you."

"WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?!"

Instead of answering, he calmly put the truck in gear.

The entire vehicle shuddered. The engine groaned like it was contemplating retirement, but unfortunately, my brother happened to be a necromancer who did not believe in giving things a peaceful rest.

I tightened my grip on the door handle.

Songyi, meanwhile, was watching this with glee. "You know, this truck should be in a museum. This thing is an artifact of your broke era, Oppa."

Jinwoo ignored her outright.

I did not. "Exactly! See, even Songyi agrees! This thing should’ve been retired to a junkyard years ago! What are we even doing here?!"

Jinwoo flicked the turn signal, his expression blank. "Driving."

"DRIVING WHERE? WHY? YOU CAN TELEPORT."

"Driving is relaxing."

"FOR WHO?!"

"Me."

I let out a slow, long-suffering exhale. "Right. Of course. Because why use convenient, instant teleportation when you can manually operate a relic from 2005."

Jinwoo just shrugged, fully at peace with his terrible decisions.

Songyi, grinning like a goblin, leaned forward between the seats. "To be fair, Jinah, this is kind of historic. I mean, I don’t think anyone has ever seen Sung Jinwoo willingly sit in traffic before."

I whirled on her. "TRAITOR."

She dodged my incoming swat with professional best friend reflexes.

Jinwoo, being the absolute menace that he was, merely turned onto the main road, completely unbothered.

I slumped against my seat, staring at the passing streets like they personally offended me. "You know, I had a normal life," I muttered. "Once."

Jinwoo hummed, eyes on the road. "That seems unlikely."

I snapped my head toward him. "EXCUSE ME?!"

"You exaggerate a lot."

"THAT DOESN’T MEAN I’M WRONG."

"It means you are sometimes wrong."

I threw my hands up. "OPPA. YOU GOT MISTAKEN FOR A KIDNAPPER."

"That was a misunderstanding."

"A MISUNDERSTANDING?!"

Songyi, ever the agent of chaos, tilted her head in fake consideration. "To be fair, Jinwoo-ssi, you were wearing a shady hoodie, standing next to a truck, and staring at students. You absolutely looked like a kidnapper."

"THANK YOU," I yelled, pointing aggressively. "SEE? THIS IS WHY I NEED BORING."

Jinwoo was completely unaffected.

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "This is gonna be the talk of the school for months. Months. You’ve doomed me."

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it’s my fault."

"IT IS YOUR FAULT."

"I was just picking you up."

"LIKE A NORMAL BROTHER DOESN’T DO."

"I don’t see the issue."

"THE ISSUE IS YOU."

Songyi snorted. "She’s got a point."

Jinwoo, baffled, glanced at me again. "Would you rather I send a shadow instead?"

I froze.

Because.

That was worse.

I could already imagine it.

Jinah walking out of school, thinking she was free—only to see Beru standing by the truck, holding a sign that said ‘SUNG JINAH – YOUR BROTHER SUMMONED ME’ in bold, aggressive font.

I felt my entire soul evacuate my body.

"YOU WOULDN’T."

Jinwoo blinked. "Wouldn’t I?"

I physically recoiled. "I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU SEND THAT BUG TO PICK ME UP, I’LL—"

"What? Move out?"

I gasped. "YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT."

Songyi wheezed in the backseat. "Oh my god, I love this truck. Can we keep this truck? This truck is where history is happening."

I stabbed a finger in her direction. "You are not helping."

She beamed. "I never do."

Jinwoo turned the wheel, taking a slow left. "At least I didn’t bring Kaisel."

"DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT."

"He'd fit in the field behind the school."

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT."

Jinwoo sighed, as if I was the unreasonable one. "You’re making this a bigger deal than it is."

I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Right. Because getting arrested for looking mildly suspicious isn’t a big deal."

He gave me a flat look. "I wasn’t arrested."

"BECAUSE THE GIRL WAS TOO BUSY APOLOGIZING TO BREATHE."

Songyi, still delighting in my suffering, wiped away a fake tear. "Rest in peace, Jinah’s fragile illusion of normalcy. It was nice while it lasted."

Jinwoo slowed to a stop at a red light, then turned to me, expression unreadable.

"Would it have been better," he asked, "if I didn’t come at all?"

The question caught me off guard.

I hesitated, my frustration halting just enough for a brief flicker of guilt to seep in.

I scowled, looking away. "That’s not what I said."

The light turned green.

Jinwoo didn’t push the topic.

Instead, he turned back to the road, kept driving.

Songyi, ever the master of ruining moments, leaned forward again. "Sooo, can I put music on?"

Jinwoo shrugged. "Go ahead."

She grinned, reaching for the aux cord.

"Hey, Oppa," she chirped, all too casually.

Jinwoo hummed in response.

"How do you feel about girl group songs?"

I had never seen my brother look so immediately betrayed.

And just like that, the peace was over.

Step Eight: The Sung Household Chaos (Or: How to Discover Your Brother Ignored Global Emergencies to Annoy You Personally)

(In which we return home, my brother’s bad life choices catch up to him, and I realize just how much time he wasted on me today.)

By some miracle (or perhaps a curse), we made it home without Jinwoo suddenly deciding to detour through another dimension or something equally ridiculous.

The truck shuddered to a stop, releasing a sound so deep and exhausted that it might as well have been letting out its final breath.

Honestly? Same, truck. Same.

I had never unbuckled a seatbelt faster in my life.

The second the wheels stopped moving, I grabbed my bag and lunged for the door handle, fully prepared to yeet myself into freedom.

But instead of sweet release, I was met with—

Click.

I froze.

Songyi, who had just been shifting forward to leave, also froze mid-motion.

We turned our heads in perfect synchronization, both of us locking eyes with the one person in the vehicle who had the audacity, the absolute gall, to lock the doors like we were his prisoners.

Jinwoo Oppa.

Calm, composed, serene as ever, like he hadn’t just single-handedly ruined my social life at school and committed war crimes against my peace of mind.

"You’re supposed to wait until the car is fully off," he said, his voice so casual, voice so maddeningly casual, like he wasn’t currently holding me hostage in my own ride home.

I inhaled deeply, counted to three, then turned to him with murder in my eyes.

"Oppa. Unlock. The. Door."

Jinwoo blinked at me, expression unreadable. "Say please."

I felt something in my soul detach from my body.

Songyi let out a strangled sound, caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, her entire being vibrating with the absolute chaos that was my life.

"Oppa," I said, my voice low, simmering, dangerous.

"Jinah," he responded, mockingly patient.

"UNLOCK THE DOOR."

"Not until you say it nicely."

"I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL OPEN A DUNGEON JUST TO FEED YOU TO SOMETHING."

Jinwoo sighed like I was the unreasonable one, and then—finally, mercifully—he pressed the unlock button.

I threw the door open with the desperation of someone escaping captivity and practically launched myself out onto solid ground.

Songyi, of course, took her time.

She stretched. Adjusted her bag. Smoothed down her hair.

Then she turned to Jinwoo, all sugar-sweet and traitorous.

"Thanks for the ride, Oppa," she chirped, smiling.

Jinwoo gave her an approving nod.

I turned on her so fast, I might’ve gotten whiplash. "YOU’RE A TRAITOR."

She beamed. "I know."

And then, at long last, we were inside.

Mom was in the kitchen, serene as ever, sipping her tea with the air of someone who had long accepted that her life was a never-ending reality show.

"You’re back," she said, completely neutral.

Jinwoo hummed in response, already toeing off his shoes. "I drove today."

Mom sipped her tea.

"I saw."

I collapsed onto the counter, dramatic and exhausted. "Mom, tell him he’s banned from driving me ever again."

Mom did not even glance at me.

Instead, she took another slow sip, her voice perfectly neutral—too neutral.

"Jinah, be grateful your brother takes time out of his day to spend with you."

I almost choked.

Jinwoo’s smug aura intensified.

Songyi, meanwhile, was thriving off my suffering.

"Oh, I’m so glad I came over today," she said, practically radiating joy. "Your family is my new favorite sitcom."

I sent her a death glare. "I hope you drop your phone on your face while scrolling at night."

Songyi grinned. "And I hope Jinwoo-ssi continues to pick you up from school every day."

I hissed.

And then—

The pounding started.

A loud, urgent series of knocks rattled the front door so aggressively that for a second, I genuinely thought someone was trying to break in.

We froze.

Then—

"HYUNGNIM!"

The door practically slammed open.

Woo Jinchul, looking one inconvenience away from committing murder, stormed inside like he was about to file a restraining order against the very concept of Sung Jinwoo.

Right behind him, Yoo Jinho stumbled in, panting like he had just fought a war.

"HYUNGNIM!" Jinho wheezed, gasping for air. "WHY HAVE YOU BEEN IGNORING YOUR PHONE?!"

Jinwoo, entirely unfazed, barely lifted his gaze. "I turned it off."

Jinchul stopped mid-step. Stared.

Then blinked once.

Then, with painstaking control, exhaled heavily through his nose, like he was actively preventing himself from flipping the nearest table.

"Why," he said, so, so dangerously calm, "would you turn off your phone?"

Jinwoo shrugged. "I was spending time with my sister."

The silence that followed was instant.

Jinho’s mouth parted slightly, his expression caught somewhere between shock and existential crisis. Jinchul just stood there, utterly still, as if his brain had quietly short-circuited and was currently undergoing emergency repairs.

And then, without a single word, his soul visibly left his body.

Jinho, bless his dumb, naive optimism, attempted to recover first. "O-okay, yeah, sure, spending time with Jinah, that’s great, that’s wonderful—BUT, HYUNGNIM—"

Jinchul cut in, his voice a dead, exhausted monotone. "There are three international gates requesting your presence."

Jinwoo hummed, utterly indifferent. "Mm."

Jinho, sweating bullets, pushed forward, desperate to get through to him. "And four domestic gates have gone unstable—AND JAPAN HAS BEEN CALLING EVERY TWENTY MINUTES."

He hesitated—

—because something had changed.

Jinwoo, who had been the picture of relaxation just moments ago, straightened slightly.

And the air in the room shifted.

It wasn’t obvious—wasn’t even something you could see.

But the temperature seemed to drop.

The light around him didn’t flicker—it bent. Like something massive, something that had been carefully restrained, had exhaled just slightly.

There was no crack of thunder, no dramatic gust of wind.

But the room suddenly felt colder. A quiet, creeping thing that settled into the walls, into the floors, into the space between every breath.

Jinwoo tilted his head slightly, and the shift was so subtle—so eerily, terrifyingly subtle—that my stomach lurched.

The pressure changed.

I swallowed.

Because this wasn’t Oppa anymore.

This was the Shadow Monarch.

Jinwoo’s voice was different when he spoke.

Not annoyed. Not teasing.

Just calm. Absolute. A voice that made decisions, not mistakes.

"Japan’s gates—rank?"

Jinchul was quicker than Jinho, snapping into professional mode without hesitation. "One S-rank. They’re requesting assistance from both Korean and American hunters."

Jinwoo nodded once. "What about the domestic collapses?"

Jinho hesitated. "One of them… it’s a high-tier break, hyungnim. Estimated total breach in less than an hour."

Jinwoo closed his eyes.

A second. A single breath.

Then, when he opened them—

The air folded in on itself.

It was silent. There was no great shift, no explosion of power. But the weight of something vast, something absolute descended like an unseen force.

Jinwoo turned his head slightly, shadows shifting at his feet.

The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I felt it.

Like a door had been opened into an abyss I couldn’t comprehend.

He wasn’t looking at me.

But I felt watched.

"Jinchul." His voice was even. Steady. Absolute. "Tell the Hunters Association I’ll handle Japan’s S-rank personally. Send Igris ahead to slow the break. Make sure they evacuate all civilians within a five-kilometer radius."

The shadows beneath him shifted.

This time, not subtly.

The light around him didn’t dim—it bent.

Like something was warping the very space he stood in.

Jinchul nodded without a single question, already dialing.

Jinwoo turned to Jinho.

"Deploy Beru, Jima, and Tusk," he ordered, each name falling like a command woven into reality itself. "Send two detachments of knights with each of them to the high-tier domestic break. Have them suppress until I finish in Japan. I’ll teleport directly after."

The shadows moved.

Not all at once.

Not violently.

But like something had been given permission to breathe.

A quiet, smooth roll of darkness, tendrils unfurling like ink spreading through water, curling at his feet before retreating back into the void.

Jinho exhaled shakily, his grip on his phone tight, white-knuckled.

Jinchul, more composed, was already speaking into his earpiece, issuing orders with clipped efficiency.

They moved in sync, no hesitation, no wasted motion. Not like they were following a leader. Not like they were obeying a commander.

Like they were holding the line. Like they refused to let him do it alone.

Then—

His eyes flickered to me.

Just for a second.

Just for the briefest, smallest moment.

And in that moment, the weight of everything around us vanished.

Like it had never been there.

Like he had pulled it back.

His fingers landed on my head.

Soft. Steady. A simple pat. The smallest, most human gesture in a world I was beginning to realize was anything but.

And then, just as softly—almost sadly—

"I’ll be late for dinner."

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

And the apartment snapped back into reality.

Jinho let out a long, shuddering breath, pressing a hand to his forehead like he needed a full reboot. Jinchul was already moving, already making calls, his expression smoothed over with a layer of professionalism that wasn’t there a second ago.

Me?

I just stood there.

Like an idiot.

Like a girl who just spent her whole morning running from her brother, yelling at him for being too clingy—only to watch him turn around and shoulder the entire goddamn world without a second thought.

Jinwoo had woken up this morning and made me porridge.

He had stayed home, lingered at breakfast, hovered in the kitchen like some overgrown cryptid who had nothing better to do. He had followed me to school. He had driven me home in that ridiculous old truck when he could’ve warped anywhere on the planet in an instant.

And I—

I had spent all morning yelling at him.

Accusing him of not having time for me.

Mocking him for staying, for being overbearing, for sticking too close.

I had thrown those words at him so carelessly—"Since when do you have time for me?"—thinking I was calling him out, thinking I was proving a point.

And the whole time—

He had been ignoring everything else.

The international emergencies. The collapsing gates. The literal entire planet.

He had turned off his phone. Shut out the world.

Just to walk me to school.

Just to make sure I was okay.

I felt something hot and sharp crawl up my throat.

I wasn’t going to cry.

I wasn’t.

But—

I swallowed hard and looked away, shaking my head like I could physically dislodge the weight pressing into my chest.

Songyi shifted beside me.

I glanced at her.

She was still watching me.

She hadn’t spoken since Jinwoo left.

That was how I knew it was bad.

For once—even she didn’t think it was funny.

And suddenly, my morning argument with him didn’t feel so funny anymore either.

.

Study compromised. Findings inconclusive. Subject observed displaying unexpected variables, leading to potential reevaluation of prior hypothesis. Further research required.

Chapter Text

서울 데일리 포스트 (Seoul Daily Post)

📰 Article: "Sung Jinwoo Saves Japan—Again. But How Long Will the World Expect Him to Answer?"

By: 박지수 (Park Ji-Soo), Senior Correspondent
🗓️ Published: February 26, 2025 | 06:30 AM KST
💬 Commenting is open

성진우, 또다시 일본을 구하다. 그러나 세계는 언제까지 그를 필요로 할 것인가? (Sung Jinwoo Saves Japan—Again. But How Long Will the World Expect Him to Answer?)

Once again, Hunter Sung Jinwoo has done what no other hunter in the world can do.

Following Japan’s urgent and repeated requests for intervention—at times calling the Korean Hunter Association nearly every twenty minutes—Sung Jinwoo responded, swiftly stabilizing a crisis that had threatened to spiral out of control.

Even with four concurrent S-rank dungeon breaks occurring in South Korea that same night, it was widely expected that he would prioritize his homeland. Instead, and to no one’s real surprise, he responded to all of them.

This is not the first time Japan has relied on South Korea’s strongest hunter.

Since the Giant Crisis, Sung Jinwoo has intervened in numerous large-scale dungeon disasters beyond Korea’s borders. His presence in Japan, once regarded as an emergency response, has now become a recurring phenomenon—one that international critics argue places Japan among the most “favored” nations in his interventions, second only to South Korea itself.

With every crisis, the pattern repeats.

Japan, despite boasting one of the strongest hunter infrastructures in the world, reaches its limits. Its most elite hunters, including those under Reiji Sugimoto’s leadership in the Draw Sword Guild, fight with everything they have. Their best strategists, their most experienced S-ranks, their most coordinated guild efforts—all mobilized, all giving everything.

But even the best among them cannot overcome the impossible.

And so, they call Hunter Sung Jinwoo.

By the time the dust settles, the reports are the same.

Zero casualties. No fallen civilians, no missing hunters, no disaster zones left smoldering.

The crisis is resolved before the world even realizes how dire it had become.

And yet, as always, there are those who remain unsatisfied.

--

의존인가, 협력인가? (Dependency or Cooperation?)

Not everyone is comfortable with Japan’s continued reliance on South Korea’s greatest hunter.

Matsumoto Shigeo, former chairman of the Japanese Hunter Association (JHA) and a well-known critic of Korea’s meteoric rise in hunter dominance, has once again resurfaced in public discourse—this time, denouncing Japan’s continued appeals for external intervention.

"We long for the days of Goto Ryuji—when Japan stood on the verge of producing a national-level hunter of its own. Relying on foreign intervention—especially from South Korea—is a disgrace to Japan’s sovereignty. Have we truly fallen so low that we must beg for salvation?"

A bold statement, considering it comes from the man whose own failures during the Giant Crisis led to the deaths of thousands—before Sung Jinwoo arrived and turned the tide of battle in Japan’s favor.

Matsumoto’s rhetoric, though dismissed by many, has found an audience among a small but vocal nationalist faction within Japan’s hunter community. To them, every time Japan turns to Korea’s strongest hunter, it is an admission of dependency.

But let us be clear—this is not about sovereignty.

This is about reality.

Because the reality is simple: Japan called. And Sung Jinwoo answered.

Just as he always has. And just as South Korea always knew he would.

그는 누구의 것도 아니다. 하지만, 우리의 것이다.
(He Belongs to No One. But He is Ours.)

Since the fall of the Dragon Monarch - the Apocalypse, one truth has become undeniable: Sung Jinwoo is not just Korea’s strongest hunter—he is the single greatest force of destruction and salvation that exists today.

The world calls upon him when disaster strikes, because they know he will come.

They discuss him in hushed, uneasy tones, knowing they have no countermeasure.

They watch him, question him, fear him.

But they must be reminded: He is not theirs.

성진우는 이 나라에서 태어났다. 이 나라에서 강해졌다.
He was born here. He became strong here.

한국의 하늘 아래에서 싸웠고, 한국의 도시를 지키기 위해 그 힘을 길러왔다.
He fought under Korean skies and honed his power to protect Korean cities.

그는 한국의 자랑이다. 그리고 우리의 것이다.
He is Korea’s pride. And he is ours.

외국 정부들이 그를 탐내든, 두려워하든, 경계하든 상관없다.
It does not matter if foreign governments covet him, fear him, or seek to contain him.

그는 한국인이다.
He is Korean.

세계는 그를 필요로 할 수 있다. 그러나 명심해야 할 것이 있다.
The world may need him. But they must remember—

한국이 먼저다.
Korea comes first.

So before we send him to clean up yet another foreign catastrophe, before the world makes another call they know he will answer, perhaps they should ask ourselves this:

If one day, Hunter Sung Jinwoo decides he is done, who will be left to save them then?

Next article: President Kim Addresses the Nation on Hunter Sung Jinwoo’s Decision to Prioritize Japan Before Ulsan and Gwangju Gates: "Korea Comes First".

--

Top Comments

🆔 Hwarang_77| 07:21 AM KST
Sung Jinwoo is Korea’s treasure. Our people. Our strength. Our guardian. These foreign nations need to stop treating him like a shared resource.

🔁 812 replies | 👍 10.2K | 👎 930

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 12.34 AM KST
@Hwarang_77 LMAO, do you hear yourselves? He’s not a treasure, he’s a person. Maybe instead of trying to claim him, people should start figuring out how to not depend on him for everything.

🔁 219 replies | 👍 7.1K | 👎 2.5K

🆔 TigerSeoul | 07:10 AM KST
Japan has some real nerve acting like they have any claim over him. This is the same country that tried to blindside Korean hunters from Jeju Island, and now they expect our hunter to save them?

🔁 1.1K replies | 👍 18.2K | 👎 692

🆔 SamuraiEdge_jp | 07:26 AM KST
And what, Korea thinks he only belongs to them? Who was he saving last night? Not just Seoul. Maybe you should ask yourselves why he keeps coming back to Japan.

🔁 542 replies | 👍 2.8K | 👎 11.1K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 02:45 AM KST
Or maybe, just hear me out, he helps people because he’s not a selfish nationalist like y’all. Wild concept, I know.

🔁 674 replies | 👍 15.1K | 👎 1.9K

🆔 Ryuji0111| 07:35 AM KST
Excuse me? Japan’s hunters did fight. We were already containing the break before Hunter Sung Jinwoo arrived. He finished it, yes, but don’t insult our forces when they put their lives on the line.

🔁 302 replies | 👍 5.6K | 👎 3.1K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 11:15 PM KST
Finally, some sanity in this comment section. Japan’s hunters were on-site FIRST. They fought FIRST. And Sung Jinwoo cleaned up because no one else can finish fights on his level. That’s not their failure. That’s just the gap in power.

🔁 192 replies | 👍 6.3K | 👎 2.1K

🆔 SkyWatcher94 | 07:40 AM KST
At this point, the world’s entire disaster response strategy is just: "Wait for Sung Jinwoo to show up."

🔁 1.2K replies | 👍 22.5K | 👎 391

🆔 33CelestialHawk | 07:50 AM KST
Can we all just agree that the zero casualties part isn’t normal? Not even among National-Level Hunters. What he does isn’t just power—it’s tactical genius.

🔁 734 replies | 👍 16.7K | 👎 780

🆔 quantum2pecter | 11:45 AM KST
I don’t care what anyone says. Sung Jinwoo is the only person alive I would trust to singlehandedly protect an entire country overnight.

🔁 853 replies | 👍 18.4K | 👎 692

🆔 DaggerDaggerDagger69 | 08:06 AM KST
You guys don’t understand. This man defies logic. Every time I read a news article about him, I lose another sense of what is possible in this world.

🔁 693 replies | 👍 14.8K | 👎 1.2K

🆔 Realist666Anon | 08:15 AM KST
How is no one questioning the fact that this one man has more power than any country on Earth? This isn’t normal. It’s terrifying. How do we stop him?

🔁 532 replies | 👍 3.9K | 👎 14.3K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 08:23 AM KST
So let me get this straight—he saves a country overnight for free, asks for nothing, and your first thought is "How do we stop him?" This is why he doesn’t deal with politicians.

🔁 912 replies | 👍 21.9K | 👎 3.3K

🆔 HANGUKSEOO12 | 07:42 AM KST
South Korea comes first. The world can beg, but in the end, Sung Jinwoo belongs to us.

🔁 417 replies | 👍 8.7K | 👎 1.5K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 07:45 AM KST
He doesn’t “belong” to anyone. He’s literally out there risking his life 24/7 while the rest of you sit in the comments writing poetry about how much you own him. Grow tf up.

🔁 391 replies | 👍 11.5K | 👎 4.8K

🆔 HANGUKSEOO12 | 09:11 AM KST

@AriseWithFacts Shut up, you Japanese keep claiming him as yours and we're so tired of it.

🔁 179 replies | 👍 2.3K | 👎 32.8K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 12:01 PM KST
@HANGUKSEOO12 I'm korean too???!! 야 이 미친놈아! (Ya, you crazy bastard!) Get a fucking grip, man.

🔁 121 replies | 👍 24.5K | 👎 4.8K

🆔 churchillincarnate | 07:50 AM KST
Let’s be real—no one is comfortable with one man holding this much power. If Sung Jinwoo ever turns against us, what then? Where’s the countermeasure?

🔁 722 replies | 👍 9.1K | 👎 3.3K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 07:53 AM KST
What then? You mean what happens when he finally decides he’s had enough of saving ungrateful people like you? Good luck with that, bud.

🔁 634 replies | 👍 13.9K | 👎 2.9K

🆔 imnobody2u| 08:01 AM KST
@AriseWithFacts Sung Jinwoo is beyond any nation’s control, and that should scare people. A single man should never have this much power.

🔁 895 replies | 👍 7.6K | 👎 5.2K

 

🆔 Frostborne | 09:35 AM KST
I fought in one of the Korean gates he handled before heading to Japan. We were barely holding on—and then he showed up. I can’t describe what it’s like. It’s like… watching something beyond human.

🔁 892 replies | 👍 19.2K | 👎 650

🆔 sjwsimpp37373737 | 09:36 AM KST
YOU MET HIM???? MR. HUNTER, WAS HE THAT SUPER SUPER DREAMY IN PERSON??? AHHHHHHH TELL ME EVERYTHINGGGG 😭😭😭

🔁 1.2K replies | 👍 17.6K | 👎 1.2K

🆔 Frostborne | 09:38 AM KST
@sjwsimpp37373737….........Ma’am, we were fighting for our lives.

🆔 lovebotnotwarbot| 12:55 PM KST
I CAN’T BELIEVE JAPANESE CIVILIANS GOT TO SEE HIM IN PERSON WHILE I’M OUT HERE WATCHING LOW-QUALITY NEWS FOOTAGE. DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE.

🔁 921 replies | 👍 17.8K | 👎 598

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 01:05 PM KST

This is what you’re focusing on??? It was a gate disaster site. Monsters were literally spilling into the city. I don’t think those civilians felt particularly lucky.

 

ASSOCIATED PRESS

The Sung Jinwoo Dilemma: Savior, Weapon, or Global Threat?

🗓️ Published: February 27, 2025 | 06:30 AM GMT
💬 Commenting is open
By: International Desk

At approximately 2:00 AM GMT, Hunter Sung Jinwoo completed a high-speed intervention mission across South Korea and Japan, neutralizing multiple S-rank dungeon breakouts before they escalated.

His simultaneous response to critical threats in two nations has once again reignited international discussions regarding his role in global security and whether the world can afford to remain dependent on a single individual.

While South Korea and Japan have openly relied on Sung Jinwoo’s strength in times of crisis, his growing presence in international affairs raises urgent and controversial questions:

Is he a stabilizing force or an unaccountable risk?
Should world governments formalize security policies around his presence?
What happens if he ever chooses not to intervene?

A Force Beyond Sovereignty

Sung Jinwoo rose to prominence after single-handedly neutralizing the Jeju Dungeon Break of South Korea, and the Giant Invasion in Tokyo, two events that devastated Japan before his intervention. His subsequent eradication of the Dragon Monarch, Antares, established him as the strongest hunter in recorded history. However, his status as an independent entity, unaffiliated with any government or military structure, has led to increasing global unease.

Former JHA Chairman Matsumoto Shigeo has been one of the most outspoken critics of Japan’s continued reliance on Sung Jinwoo, warning that national security cannot depend on an individual beyond state control.

“A nation must stand on its own. We cannot allow our safety to rest in the hands of an individual we have no power over.”
— Matsumoto Shigeo, Former Chairman of the Japanese Hunter Association (JHA)

Western intelligence agencies have expressed similar concerns, with analysts highlighting the unprecedented imbalance of power created by Sung Jinwoo’s existence.

Meanwhile, current JHA Chairman Reiji Sugimoto, the one directly responsible for requesting Sung Jinwoo’s intervention, has been unavailable for comment. He remains occupied with managing the aftermath of the crisis.

“No entity—government, military, or hunter organization—can match his operational speed or efficiency. There is no force on Earth that can hold him accountable. While his actions remain benevolent, this should concern us all.”
— Dr. Emily Han, International Hunter Policy Analyst

While Sung Jinwoo has demonstrated no intention of leveraging his power for political influence, his sheer presence forces world governments to reconsider their security frameworks in the face of an individual whose abilities surpass entire nations.

The Monarchs War: What Really Happened?

Although Sung Jinwoo is widely recognized as the figure who ended the Monarchs War, the lack of official documentation surrounding the conflict continues to raise significant intelligence concerns.

Skeptics point to an uncomfortable fact—he was not merely fighting the Monarchs. He was one of them.

Antares was a Monarch.
The other Monarchs were hostile invaders.
And Sung Jinwoo?
He is the Shadow Monarch.

A leaked NATO security memo, obtained by AP, details Western intelligence concerns over the lack of transparency surrounding Sung Jinwoo’s battle with the Monarchs:

“We cannot overlook the possibility that the Monarchs War was not an invasion, but a power struggle between their kind. Sung Jinwoo was not a human hunter fighting to protect Earth—he was a Monarch eliminating his rivals.”

“South Korea remains silent on this matter. Why? If Sung Jinwoo is a savior, why not be transparent?”

The memo further reveals that Western military strategists have already begun drafting countermeasures in the event of a ‘Shadow Monarch Scenario’, a theoretical situation where Sung Jinwoo transitions from protector to existential threat.

Meanwhile, Russia, China, and other BRICS nations have taken a markedly different stance.

“If the West fears Sung Jinwoo, it is because they do not have him. Why must they always seek to control what they do not understand?”
— Alexander Petrov, Russian State Media Correspondent

Their position underscores a key divide in global hunter policy—whether Sung Jinwoo should be seen as a risk to be mitigated or a force to be accommodated.

Scientific and Hunter Community Divided

Beyond geopolitics, Sung Jinwoo’s presence has also sparked debate among hunter specialists and researchers.

Dr. Emily Han, a senior policy analyst, remains one of the most vocal proponents of treating Sung Jinwoo as an international anomaly that must be monitored.

“Even the Monarchs had opposing forces to counterbalance them. Sung Jinwoo? He stands alone. If the world fails to assess the risks associated with such unchecked power, we risk making a grave miscalculation.””

However, her claims were challenged by Dr. Norman Belzer, a renowned researcher in gates, magic beasts, and hunter phenomena, during the most recent International Guild Conference.

“This paranoia-driven rhetoric ignores a fundamental truth: Sung Jinwoo has never once acted with hostility toward humanity. He has saved entire nations, fought battles no one else could, and left without demanding anything in return.”

“The real question isn’t ‘What if Sung Jinwoo becomes a threat?’ The real question is—why is the world so desperate to control something it cannot replicate?”

His perspective reflects the growing divide within the hunter community. While some believe Sung Jinwoo’s strength serves as an irreplaceable stabilizing force, others remain deeply unsettled by the reality that no other hunter is even remotely close to matching his power.

.

For now, Sung Jinwoo remains unaffiliated, answering no government, no military, and no international coalition.

But as his influence continues to grow, so does the fear of those who cannot claim him.

Top Comments

🆔 SkyboundNomad | 07:50 AM GMT
The crazy part isn’t just his power—it’s how little he asks for in return. Name one other person in history who could shape the world but chooses not to.

🔁 5.1K replies | 👍 41.2K | 👎 710

🆔 LibertyGuardian88 | 07:10 AM GMT
I don’t understand how people just accept this. He singlehandedly neutralized crises that entire nations struggled to contain. What happens when he decides he’s had enough?

🔁 1.2K replies | 👍 12.4K | 👎 3.1K

🆔 StarSpangled1Hunter | 07:15 AM GMT
@LibertyGuardian88 The fact that no one has any oversight over him should be terrifying. NATO has every right to be concerned.

🔁 642 replies | 👍 9.1K | 👎 1.8K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 12:34 AM KST 
@LibertyGuardian88 @StarSpangled1Hunter Or maybe, just maybe, NATO and the International Hunter Bureau should be asking why every global crisis requires Sung Jinwoo’s intervention in the first place.

🔁 3.1K replies | 👍 18.6K | 👎 720

🆔 WhiteKnight24 | 07:40 AM GMT
Let’s be honest, if Sung Jinwoo were American or European, NATO wouldn’t be talking about “containment.” They’d be calling him the greatest hero of our time.

🔁 5.1K replies | 👍 41.2K | 👎 1.1K

🆔 StarsAndStripes | 07:43 AM GMT
I mean… name one non-Western figure in history who was allowed to be this powerful without being treated like a problem.

🔁 3.2K replies | 👍 28.6K | 👎 3.2K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 02:15 AM KST
And this is why he doesn’t respond to press calls anymore.

🔁 7.5K replies | 👍 36.1K | 👎 1.4K

🆔 StarsAndStripes | 14:43 PM GMT
@AriseWithFacts lmfao the last and only time he addressed the public was before the Monarchs War, wearing some kind of otherworldly armor made of shadows.

I swear, if there’s ever another press conference, he’s gonna show up hovering mid-air, surrounded by a literal army of the dead, and smite all the reporters on live TV 💀

🔁 4.8K replies | 👍 32.9K | 👎 1.9K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:22 AM KST
@StarsAndStripes ....he would not do that.

🔁 6.3K replies | 👍 39.1K | 👎 2.5K

🆔 StarsAndStripes | 14:45 PM GMT
@AriseWithFacts Would he not? You don't even know him. 

🔁 8.1K replies | 👍 44.2K | 👎 1.5K

🆔 JinwooSimp42 | 14:50 PM GMT

@StarsAndStripes

Sung Jinwoo going full Shadow Monarch on a press conference >>> 

istg everyone forgot to breathe for one moment and just stood there. Like bro, be serious—you can’t just deliver a global warning about the Monarchs while looking like that. No wonder Canada froze instead of running. 😭

🔁 19.3K replies | 👍 78.2K | 👎 1.1K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:30 AM KST
@JinwooSimp42 ...that wasn’t intentional. He just… doesn’t think about these things. 💀 

And don’t joke about Canada, y’all were blaming him when he was literally in the middle of a war.

🔁 4.8K replies | 👍 32.9K | 👎 1.9K

🆔 StarsAndStripes | 17:05 PM GMT
@AriseWithFact Yo, who the fuck are you?? I’ve seen you in like ten different comment sections now.

🔁 8.1K replies | 👍 97.5K | 👎 1.8K

🆔 S-ClassStrategist230 | 08:30 AM GMT
The way he operates in battle is unnatural. I’ve studied footage frame by frame—his response time is inhuman, his battlefield awareness is godlike.

🔁 6.4K replies | 👍 19.2K | 👎 650

🆔 StarSpangledHunter | 07:15 AM GMT
People talk about Jinwoo being "uncontrollable," but Thomas Andre himself said, "There’s nothing to control." He does what’s right without waiting for permission.

🆔 Sovereign__2 | 07:21 AM GMT
It’s not paranoia to ask what happens if Sung Jinwoo ever stops playing the hero. Governments make contingency plans for everything—why should he be any different?

🔁 892 replies | 👍 7.4K | 👎 9.2K

🔁 642 replies | 👍 11.4K | 👎 1.8K

🆔 ragnar8okkk2 | 08:00 AM GMT
So let’s talk about why Sung Jinwoo didn’t save Canada during the Great Northern Gate Disaster. If he’s such a selfless savior, why did he ignore us?

🔁 895 replies | 👍 7.6K | 👎 5.2K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:34 AM KST
I don’t know how to tell you this AGAIN… but Sung Jinwoo isn’t a 24/7 global janitor. He was already fighting a war against literal interdimensional gods when Canada’s gate happened. Y’all keep bringing this up like he was kicking back on vacation instead of saving the entire plan.

SEE? THIS IS WHY WE DON'T JOKE ABOUT CANADA!!!

🔁 243 replies | 👍 10.K | 👎 3.2K

🆔 StarsAndStripes | 18:35 PM GMT
@AriseWithFact Go to sleep, bro. You’re way too emotionally invested in this. 💀💀

🔁 12 replies | 👍 2.5K | 👎 123

🆔 ChrisReedStan23| 07:35 AM GMT
Everyone talks about how Sung Jinwoo could be a threat, but Christopher Reed would be dead if not for him. Let’s not pretend he’s out here “conquering nations” when he literally saved one of America’s strongest hunters.

🔁 1.7K replies | 👍 16.8K | 👎 2.2K

🆔 souravJAIN | 07:37 AM IST
In India, Siddharth Bachchan is literally revered as a god—but even he has admitted that Sung Jinwoo’s power is beyond human comprehension. That’s coming from a man whose presence alone inspires religious devotion.

🔁 2.8K replies | 👍 21.5K | 👎 4.1K

🆔 AmazonForestTourism | 07:55 AM GMT
Jonas Vieira, Brazil’s strongest hunter, refused to even compare himself to Sung Jinwoo. If National-Level Hunters can accept that, why can’t world leaders?

🔁 1.7K replies | 👍 16.8K | 👎 2.2K

🆔 TigerSeoul_0 | 13:45 PM KST
Look at these foreign governments scrambling because a South Korean hunter is the one saving their countries. They don’t like the idea that Korea is leading the world’s defense, and they especially don’t like the fact that they can’t control him.

🔁 1.9K replies | 👍 20.6K | 👎 785

🆔 Hwarang_77 | 14:52 PM KST
South Korea produced the strongest hunter in history, and suddenly, the world has a problem with him. Funny how they never worried about “unchecked power” when it was National-Level Hunters from the U.S. or China.

🔁 1.5K replies | 👍 18.2K | 👎 992

🆔 29SunriseEdge | 15:58 PM JST
Sung Jinwoo may be Korean, but he has saved Japan too many times to pretend he isn’t just as much ours. Without him, Tokyo would have been wiped off the map during the Giant Crisis. If he’s protecting us, then we have a right to say he isn’t just Korea’s hunter.

🔁 1.2K replies | 👍 4.6K | 👎 13.1K

🆔 BushidoSteel | 08:04 PM JST
@29SunriseEdge RIGHT. What’s frustrating is how Koreans act like he wouldn’t come if Japan didn’t call. He does. He always does. Korea doesn’t “own” Sung Jinwoo—he protects the world.

🔁 989 replies | 👍 3.8K | 👎 11.7K

🆔 TigerSeoul_0| 10:58 PM KST
@29SunriseEdge @BushidoSteel Get off my thread. Stop co-opting our hunter.

🔁 3.5K replies | 👍 22.9K | 👎 592

🆔 BushidoSteel | 08:04 PM JST
@TigerSeoul_0 Your hunter? Come back again when he went to your gates first instead of Japan. Besides, let’s be real—he’s not even human anymore. He’s something else.

🔁 989 replies | 👍 19.7K | 👎 48

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 11:05 PM KST
ALL OF YOU PLEASE STOP 😭😭😭

🔁 8.3K replies | 👍 33.4K | 👎 1.2K

🆔 ShadowMonarchSimp21 | 08:15 AM GMT
Y’ALL ARE MISSING THE REAL CONCERN HERE. WHAT IF HE GETS TIRED AND DECIDES TO TAKE A BREAK. WHO WILL SAVE MY HEART THEN.

🔁 2.3K replies | 👍 19.4K | 👎 739

🆔 DaggerDagger69 | 08:23 AM GMT
Bro just saved two nations in a single night and left before anyone could even thank him. Imagine fighting for your life and suddenly he appears, coat billowing, eyes glowing purple, and says “Don’t worry.” I would simply pass away.

🔁 4.7K replies | 👍 29.1K | 👎 582

🆔 MonarchsLoyalWifeXXX | 09:20 AM GMT

MMMMHMMM I NEED TO WRITE SELF-INSERT FICS ABOUT THIS. 😩😩 Imagine his deep, midnight voice, smooth as velvet, whispering “You’re safe now, my love.” as his obsidian-black cloak billows dramatically in the wind, catching the silver glow of the moon like the wings of a fallen angel.

His beautiful, piercing amethyst eyes—endless, unreadable, yet devastatingly beautiful—lock onto yours. Shadows curl around him like loyal creatures of the abyss, his very presence radiating an inhuman, otherworldly power.

AND THAT FACE.

A face carved by the heavens, sharp enough to make gods tremble. His lips part, as if about to whisper your name—AND THEN HE DISAPPEARS INTO THE NIGHT, LEAVING ONLY THE MEMORY OF HIS DIVINE EXISTENCE IN YOUR SHATTERED HEART.

🔁 3.8K replies | 👍 25.7K | 👎 492

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:30 AM KST
I AM BEGGING YOU TO STOP 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 I’M TRYING TO FIGHT FOR HIS BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS.

🔁 6.3K replies | 👍 34.6K | 👎 1.2K

🆔 DaggerDagger69 | 09:31 AM GMT
@AriseWithFacts…Human? Bro, let’s not kid ourselves. That man is like three celestial ranks above humanity at this point. We’re just lucky he still walks among us.

🔁 5.8K replies | 👍 30.2K | 👎 913

Sung Family Apartment - Early Morning

Something smelled too good for a morning that already felt like a disappointment. The air was thick with the scent of eggs and something buttery, and beyond that, the distant, rhythmic clatter of a spatula against a pan. The soft hum of Mom’s voice drifted from the kitchen, a familiar and grounding sound, but it only made the growing heaviness in my chest settle deeper.

I cracked one eye open.

White ceiling. My room. Blankets tucked snugly around me, pillow positioned perfectly beneath my head like I had politely gone to bed instead of passing out on the couch waiting for my stupid workaholic Oppa.

I blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

I shot upright so fast my brain buffered mid-motion.

Not again.

I looked around.

My phone rested neatly on the nightstand, fully charged, its position so perfectly aligned with the edge of the table that it couldn’t have been left there by accident. The screen was facing up, at the exact right angle where I could check my notifications the moment I woke up. My blanket wasn’t just tossed over me—it was tucked, precisely, meticulously, the edges folded in a way that kept the warmth in but left just enough room so I wouldn’t feel restricted. My pillow, which I was pretty sure had been half off the couch when I fell asleep, was now perfectly centered beneath my head.

There was an order to it. A deliberate, practiced neatness.

The kind that felt unnatural for most people but completely normal for someone who had spent years running a household before he ever ran the world.

A familiar feeling of secondhand embarrassment mixed with creeping frustration settled in my gut.

Oppa carried me.

Again.

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face as the reality fully set in.

This full-grown, internationally feared, Shadow Monarch of an older brother—who had personally ended a war between literal gods, who commanded armies of the dead, who was probably listed as a natural disaster in some government files somewhere—had come home in the dead of night and decided that, out of everything happening in his life, making sure his little sister was properly tucked in was somehow a priority.

It was so embarrassing.

And worse? It meant he had actually come home.

For how long?

I reached blindly for my phone, fighting off the sinking feeling in my stomach as I checked the time. 7:46 AM.

The notifications were endless—news alerts, messages, missed calls—but I swiped past them, ignoring the world in favor of finding proof of last night.

What time had I fallen asleep? 1 AM. I had tried to stay awake, curled up on the couch, determined to catch him when he finally walked through the door.

And then—nothing.

Which meant—

I let out a sharp exhale, forcing myself to get up, my body moving before my mind could spiral further into frustration.

Dragging my feet, I made my way to the kitchen, the sounds of cooking getting clearer, the warmth from the stove wrapping around the apartment like it was just another normal morning.

.

Mom stood at the stove, flipping an omelet, her movements calm, effortless, the way they always were whenever she had accepted something long before the rest of us had. There was something too peaceful about the way she hummed quietly to herself, as if this morning wasn’t a continuation of the same cycle we all lived in.

I slid into one of the stools at the counter, my arms folding over the cool surface, glaring at my very normal, very peaceful surroundings like they had personally wronged me.

"You finally woke up," Mom said without looking at me.

I squinted at her. There was too much knowing in her tone.

"Where is he?"

She sighed, flipping the egg with too much practiced ease. "He came home at three."

I hated how that sentence sounded like something worth celebrating.

"And?"

"Left at five."

I stared at her.

Then at the stove. Then at the eggs.

Then back at her.

"...You're joking."

Mom didn’t even blink.

I groaned and let my forehead dramatically collapse onto the counter.

"Stupid," I muttered, voice muffled against the cool surface.

Mom let out a sigh, the kind that carried years of resigned acceptance. "Jinah."

"No, because he actually is. So stupid. So incredibly, unbelievably, irreversibly stupid. I think he’s lost brain cells from all the shadow-stepping."

Mom said nothing. She just flipped the eggs again.

I groaned louder, rubbing my face. "I waited for him," I grumbled. "I actually tried this time."

"He put you to bed," Mom said, so casually, like that was a normal thing that happened.

I jerked my head up.

"I am not five. I don’t need to be carried."

Mom raised an eyebrow, completely unmoved by my suffering. "You were drooling on the couch."

I gasped. "I WAS NOT—"

She gave me a look.

I narrowed my eyes. "...Was I?"

"Just a little."

Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.

I groaned and flopped back onto the counter. "I waited. I was actually trying to stay up this time."

"You needed the sleep."

"He needed the sleep," I shot back, gesturing vaguely at everything. "But I don’t see anyone teleporting him to bed. Where is his mysterious shadow babysitter, huh? Does he have an invisible caretaker that makes sure he actually stops working?"

Mom just placed a perfectly golden omelet in front of me, completely ignoring my righteous fury.

"I made extra."

I stared at it. It looked exactly like a normal breakfast.

Unlike yesterday’s.

Yesterday, Oppa made porridge. It wasn’t just a meal. It was proof that he was here. That he stayed, even for a little while.

.

I swallowed hard. "He won’t be back for a while, will he?"

Mom’s pause was brief. But it was there.

"No," she said finally. "Probably not."

Right.

So, it was over. Another one of those rare moments where he actually stayed, gone just as fast as it came.

I picked up my fork, pushing my food around my plate.

No appetite.

Fine.

I grabbed my phone instead, unlocking it with a flick of my thumb.

If I couldn’t see my dumbass, overworked, self-sacrificing Oppa in person, I’d check the news.

.

.

I unlocked my phone, thumb moving on autopilot, ready to do what every other citizen on this godforsaken planet was doing—track my Oppa through the morning news like a glorified Where’s Waldo game.

Because of course I had to rely on news coverage like some kind of clueless, desperate fan instead of, I don’t know, getting an actual text update from my own flesh and blood.

But no. Why would that ever happen?

This was the same Sung Jinwoo who had casually sprung his E-rank to S-rank transformation on us with zero warning. The same Oppa who had gone to literal war with interdimensional death gods and decided “Eh, no need to mention it to my family.”

So yeah, of course he wouldn’t bother sending a simple message like: “Hey Jinah, I’m heading to another continent, be back whenever.”

That would be too logical. Too responsible.

And my annoying, workaholic, avoidant-when-it-comes-to-family-communication Oppa was many things, but responsible with personal updates? Absolutely not.

Sure enough, he was front page.

Because of course he was.

Sung Jinwoo Saves Japan—Again.
The Sung Jinwoo Dilemma: Savior, Weapon, or Global Threat?
World Leaders React to Another Sung Jinwoo Intervention.

Blah, blah, blah.

I scrolled past the headlines, past the same tired debates, past the government statements filled with diplomatic non-answers.

World leaders were carefully monitoring the situation.
The Korean Hunter Association had issued its standard statement.

Blah, blah, blah.

Nah, I wasn’t looking for yesterday’s mess—I already knew where he’d been. Japan first. Then Korea. Then home for a grand total of two hours before he vanished again.

No, I wanted to know where he was now.

Because if he left at 5 AM, that meant he was already off saving another country—or holed up at the KHA and Guild building doing whatever cryptic, top-secret Sung Jinwoo things with Director Woo and Jinho Oppa, and I was going to have to hear about it from the news like everyone else.

Fantastic.

I scrolled faster, checking timestamps, half-distracted as my brain processed headlines on autopilot.

Crisis averted. Zero casualties. Unbelievable speed. Government statements.

Blah blah blah, where is he now?

I was just about to refresh again, already bracing for another day of unpaid shadow-tracking, when something caught my eye.

Or rather, someone.

[COMMENTS SECTION] – ASSOCIATED PRESS

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:30 AM KST
I AM BEGGING YOU TO STOP 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 😭😭😭 I’M TRYING TO FIGHT FOR HIS BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS.

I paused.

Squinted.

Tapped to expand the thread.

And that was how I discovered that one man—one singular, exhausted, absolutely feral man—was waging a personal war against the entire internet in defense of my Oppa.

At first, I wasn’t thinking too hard about it. Just some random guy, deep in the trenches, absolutely losing his mind over the discourse. Nothing new. There were always a few of those.

But then I kept reading.

And oh, my god.

He was screaming. He was losing sanity points per reply. He was fighting for his life like he had been personally assigned the role of Sung Jinwoo’s unpaid PR manager.

A man in deep psychological distress, typing like he was gripping the edge of a cliff with one hand and swinging at his enemies with the other.

He was fighting everyone.

The theorists. The doubters. The world leaders. The fangirls.

He was in every comment section, every reply thread, every ridiculous debate about whether Oppa was a hero or a cosmic-level extinction event.

And that was when I realized—I had found someone more mentally unwell about my Oppa than me.

Which should have been impossible.

🆔 shadowthirst42| 02:12 AM KST
no bc imagine ur abt to die, bleeding out, hope is gone, and then BOOM. HE APPEARS. Cloak billowing, shadows writhing at his feet, eyes glowing with otherworldly power, voice low and smooth as he says, "You’re safe now."

like HELLO??? I WOULD SIMPLY TRANSCEND. LEAVE MY MORTAL FORM BEHIND. JOIN HIS SHADOW ARMY IMMEDIATELY.

🔁 3.4K replies | 👍 27.1K | 👎 512

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 02:15 AM KST
DO YOU THINK HE HAS TIME FOR DRAMATIC ONE-LINERS?? HE IS A VERY TIRED MAN WHO HAS SAVED MORE LIVES THAN ENTIRE GOVERNMENTS COMBINED. HE DID NOT CHOOSE TO BE YOUR ANGSTY, BROODING ROMANCE LEAD. HE CHOSE TO SAVE PEOPLE.

HE DOESN’T STAND IN MOONLIGHT FOR AESTHETICS. HE STANDS THERE BECAUSE HE HASN’T SAT DOWN IN 16 HOURS.

AND Y’ALL THINK HE’S OUT HERE WHISPERING SWEET NOTHINGS???

🔁 5.8K replies | 👍 38.9K | 👎 721

🆔 CloudwalkerX | 03:04 AM KST
I don’t care how much he’s saved us—you really think someone that powerful should just be allowed to roam free? He barely interacts with the world. No oversight, no accountability. A man that untouchable isn’t a hero.

If it ever came down to it, there has to be a way to put him down. A bullet? A specialized skill? Maybe a large enough magic explosion? Something. No one should be unstoppable.

🔁 2.1K replies | 👍 8.7K | 👎 19.2K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 03:07 AM KST

DID YOU JUST CASUALLY ASK FOR WAYS TO KILL THE GUY WHO HAS DONE NOTHING BUT SAVE YOUR UNGRATEFUL LIVES???

너 지금 당장 입 닥쳐라, 이 = =censored aggressive Korean curse==

🛑 AP SYSTEM MESSAGE: This user has been temporarily suspended for violating comment policy on unruly conduct. Your account will be restricted from posting for the next 24 hours.

🔁 7.3K replies | 👍 41.5K | 👎 1.1K

🆔 CivRightsNow22 | 04:12 AM KST
Y’all love to pretend Sung Jinwoo isn’t part of the problem. Hunters destroy buildings in a rage. Governments bribe them just to keep them in check. They run the economy, sit in seats of power, their mana causes the Eternal Slumber, and no one holds them accountable—and who stopped them?

Not him.

He could’ve reined them in. Could’ve put them in their place. But he didn’t. And now we live in a world where hunters own everything, and us regular people just have to deal with it.

If the strongest hunter won’t fix it, maybe it’s time someone else did.

🔁 1.4K replies | 👍 14.9K | 👎 21.3K

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:15 AM KST
I AM GOING TO LOSE MY ENTIRE MIND.

SUNG JINWOO SAVED THE WORLD. CLEANED UP EVERY MESS. AND LEFT. WHAT DO YOU WANT HIM TO DO, RUN A HUNTER DAYCARE???

YOU THINK HE HAD TIME TO BABYSIT WHILE HE WAS OUT HERE MAKING SURE THE PLANET DIDN’T GET VAPORIZED??

FUCK OFF.

🔁 10.1K replies | 👍 60.4K | 👎 984

🆔 Lurker101around | 04:16 AM KST
Wait. Weren’t you suspended???

🔁 2.3K replies | 👍 11.4K | 👎 209

🆔 AriseWithFacts | 04:17 AM KST
SURPRISE, BITCH. I GOT MONEY.

🔁 15.2K replies | 👍 72.9K | 👎 892

I stared at the screen.

Scrolled back up.

Back down.

Checked the timestamps.

Checked them again.

No. No way.

My thumb hovered over the screen, but my body had completely locked up, because my mind was currently undergoing a full, catastrophic system crash.

The way this guy was typing.

The increasingly unhinged, sleep-deprived, fully deranged energy of a man who should have gone to bed hours ago but instead had decided to fight God, the government, and the entire internet at 4 AM with nothing but raw determination and a Wi-Fi connection.

The unholy combination of frantic loyalty, righteous indignation, and sheer mental breakdown energy that I had personally witnessed in real life.

My stomach plummeted into the abyss.

There was only one person on Earth who would be this aggressively defensive over my Oppa while also having a personal crisis over the internet’s inability to respect him properly.

Only one person who would be awake at ungodly hours, burning precious brain cells trying to educate the masses while also physically cringing at every thirst comment, conspiracy theory, and assassination attempt discussion.

OMG.

My throat closed up.

My body froze, my breath hitched, and for a brief, cursed moment, I considered throwing my entire phone out the window.

Because there was no way.

There was NO WAY.

I blinked rapidly, as if I could physically blink this knowledge out of existence.

I slowly, painstakingly scrolled back up.

Scrolled back down.

Checked the username.

.

.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide, heart pounding, teetering between sheer horror and the kind of reluctant hysteria that comes when the universe personally delivers the most cursed realization of your life.

No. Absolutely not. This couldn’t be real.

I took a shaky inhale, voice escaping in a barely restrained, half-horrified, half-wheezing whisper,

.

.

.

“…Jinho Oppa???”

Chapter Text

10 MONTHS AGO

LOCATION: WASHINGTON D.C., PENTAGON – FEDERAL BUREAU OF HUNTERS HQ, WAR ROOM

[FILE LOG 1: THE MONARCHS WAR - CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

The Pentagon’s War Room was a goddamn disaster.

The screens flickered with smoke-choked images of Canada’s eastern provinces, entire cities smothered beneath a black tide of wings and flame.

Montreal was a crater.
Ottawa’s skyline burned, consumed in dragonfire, its military response buried in molten steel.

Every new feed that tried to come through was met with static, then—

⚠ LOST CONNECTION – CANADIAN FEDERAL RESPONSE COMMAND
⚠ LOST CONNECTION – HUNTER SQUADRONS 02, 07, 19, SCAVENGER GUILD UNCONTACTABLE
⚠ LOST CONNECTION – EASTERN MILITARY BASES

David Brennon barely heard the voices shouting over each other. He just stood there, eyes locked on the monitors, hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

They had lost Canada’s Eastern and Northern provinces.

Not in an hour. Not in a day.

In minutes.

Someone at comms stammered, “We’ve—we’ve lost contact with the Hunter battalions on the ground, sir. We’re blind.”

Michael Connor’s jaw clenched. “Then get every available transport in the air. If it’s got wings, I want it evacuating civilians.”

The analyst hesitated. “Sir, if we do that, we’re abandoning the front—”

Michael didn’t even let him finish. “There is no front.”

David exhaled slowly, pressing a hand over his face. He had been here before. Just two nights ago, alone in his office, a bottle of whiskey and a loaded gun within reach. He’d been ready to give up. He had already accepted it—

And then Hunter Sung Jinwoo walked through his door, asking for his help as if he had a plan to end this goddamned annihilation.

.

The President of the United States was losing his mind behind them.

"WHY THE HELL AM I STILL HERE!?" he bellowed, pacing furiously, hands flailing. "Get me OUT of this goddamn hellhole! The Canadian PM is in a bunker—A BUNKER! And I'm stuck HERE!? The hell do I pay you people for!?"

Nobody answered.

“Launch the nukes! Deploy everything! Wipe these bastards out!”

Michael didn’t even look up. “Wouldn’t do shit.”

The President whipped around, red-faced. "WHAT—"

"They're not human, and you're not wasting a nuke on New York because you had a goddamn panic attack."

David ignored them both, his eyes locked on the screen tracking the last active Hunter squads trying to secure evacuation routes.

Another line cut to static.

Another squad disappeared.

Norma Selner hadn’t spoken in hours.

Now, she lifted her head, blinking slowly like she was waking from a dream. Her voice came quiet, almost distant.

“…It’s not over.”

David turned toward her, his fingers curling into fists.

Norma stared at the screen, the chaos unfolding in real-time, the world breaking apart before their eyes.

“…Not yet.”

LOCATION: SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA – KOREAN HUNTER ASSOCIATION HQ, COMMAND CENTER

[FILE LOG 2: THE MONARCHS' WAR - CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

Woo Jinchul wasn’t a man who prayed. He never had a reason to.

But now, standing in the command center of the Korean Hunter Association, drowning in the glow of flashing alerts and the voices of officers scrambling for control, he had nothing but prayer.

Sung Jinwoo hadn’t been seen in three days.

No reports. No sightings. No messages.

Just silence.

And no matter how much Woo Jinchul wanted to believe otherwise, the thought gnawed at him—the possibility that Jinwoo, with all his power, had chosen to leave.

He could have escaped. He could have left Earth entirely.

"Sir! Western provinces at 72% evacuation, but Seoul—"

"We don’t have enough time."

"Shelter status?"

"Overloaded. Overflowing."

"Push deeper underground. Prioritize families, injured, non-combatants. Move."

"Yes, sir!"

The S-Rank hunters and all of the Guilds were already in position.

Baek Yoonho, Lim Taegyu, Choi Jongin, Cha Haein. Even Ma Dongwook had come out of retirement.

They had all gathered here for one reason.

Not to fight. Not to win.

To hold the line.

"No matter what happens," Woo Jinchul ordered, "we do not fall back. We stand until there’s nothing left to stand on."

There was no hesitation in their response.

"Understood!"

Jinchul ran a hand over his face, exhaustion clawing at him. Where the hell are you, Hunter Sung? Don't leave us now.

The main screen flickered.

Live feed from the Eastern Front trembled—

Then the supergate shattered.

A rift tore through the battlefield, swallowing light and time itself, and from its depths, something unfathomable began to emerge.

The entire command center fell silent.

The news anchor’s voice barely reached them over the static. “A-Ah… We are now receiving footage from the Eastern Front. As you can see, there is… There is a—”

A pause. Then—

"I-Is that… a single hunter—?"

"No, wait, wait, zoom in—"

The camera feed adjusted, stabilizing just enough to focus on the lone figure standing against the advancing tide.

"Th-This… This can’t be right. We—We are confirming that Hunter Sung Jinwoo has—he has been spotted on the battlefield! He’s—he’s engaging the Army of Destruction—alone!"

The reporter’s voice cracked mid-sentence.

No one in the command center spoke.

No one moved.

Woo Jinchul just stared at the screen, his breath caught in his throat.

LOCATION: AIRBORNE – UNIDENTIFIED CRASH SITE, EASTERN FRONT

[FILE LOG 3: THE MONARCHS' WAR - CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

Mathias Keller’s ears were still ringing.

The crash had left him disoriented, limbs sluggish as he fought against the harness pinning him down. Smoke and fuel clogged his lungs. His helmet was cracked, visor smeared with blood.

His jet was gone. So was the rest of his squadron.

Somewhere in the wreckage, other pilots were still alive. Dazed, struggling, dragging themselves from the ruins. Their radios crackled with static. Someone was shouting orders, but it was lost beneath the roar of something massive.

Mathias turned his head—

A giant, its armor scorched, its left arm mangled beyond repair. But still standing.

It scanned the wreckage. The glow of its sunken eyes settled on him.

His pulse slammed into his throat. He fumbled for his sidearm.

Gunfire erupted.

Other pilots were shooting, half-crawling over the debris, desperate to fight back. The rounds did nothing. The giant barely reacted. It took a step forward, raising its remaining arm to crush them.

Then, in the space between one breath and the next—

A streak of black cut through the air.

A dagger.

The giant’s head was gone before it even realized it had been attacked.

The body staggered once. Then collapsed.

The impact rattled through the ruins. Mathias sucked in a breath, vision spinning. He hadn’t seen where the strike had come from—

Until a figure stepped out of the smoke.

The pilots froze.

No words. No hesitation. They knew exactly who he was.

The hunter whose name had been spoken in war rooms and desperate prayers alike.

The last, strongest hope they all had.

Black armor. A long coat whipping behind him. No rifle, no explosives—just twin daggers, dripping in blood.

A beat of silence.

Someone let out a breathless, half-hysterical, “Jesus.”*

And then, he moved.

The closest ogre barely had time to react before a blade cut through its throat, slicing deep enough that its entire spine twisted.

The figure spun, using the momentum to flip over an incoming orc’s axe, landing behind it in a crouch before driving his second dagger into the base of its skull.

A giant warbeast lunged for him. He caught it mid-charge, sliding under its bulk, severing both its front legs in a single clean motion. The beast crashed forward, roaring in agony—

But the hunter was already gone.

A blur of movement, a streak of shadow cutting across the battlefield.

He didn’t stop.

His daggers sang through the air, slicing through flesh, armor, bone. He weaved between attacks like a ghost, moving through the battlefield with impossible, lethal precision.

Every strike was measured. Every kill was instant.

It wasn’t a battle.

It was one man dismantling an entire army.

The pilots were still shooting, still firing useless rounds at the creatures swarming toward them. But Mathias barely noticed.

His gaze stayed locked on the Asian man who had just saved their lives.

No orders. No backup. No hesitation. No shadow—where are his famed shadows?

Just a hunter, walking through the battlefield alone.

LOCATION: GLOBAL BROADCASTS – TIMES SQUARE, TRAFALGAR SQUARE, MANDELA SQUARE, COPACABANA BEACH

[FILE LOG 4: THE MONARCHS' WAR - CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

The world was running.

Every city, every country, every last desperate evacuation zone—they were all connected by the same relentless, overlapping broadcasts.

“—Northwestern forces wiped out, repeat, Northwestern forces—”
“—Dragon army still advancing—”
“—Mandatory evacuation for—”
“—FINAL transport flights are—”
“—We’re losing, we’re LOSING—”

The wailing sirens never stopped. Streets were overflowing with people, shoved shoulder to shoulder, pressing forward toward the last escape routes—buses, aircraft, even cargo ships overloaded with refugees.

Everywhere, soldiers screamed orders. People cried, begged, collapsed. The sound of boots pounding pavement, of alarms blaring over loudspeakers, of military helicopters chopping through the air, of news anchors talking over each other in frantic panic—

And through it all, the broadcasts kept running.

Every screen, every digital billboard, every emergency alert—Times Square, Trafalgar Square, Mandela Square, Copacabana Beach—showed a patchwork of warzones, the world’s last defenses crumbling in real-time.

The Western Front—where the U.S. military and the strongest hunters in North America clashed against the Iron Body Monarch’s endless legions of orcs and giants.

The Southern Hemisphere, where entire continents had turned into evacuation zones, civilians fleeing as monstrous beasts poured from the Gates.

And then—

“Wait—what the hell is happening in the Eastern Front?!”

The feed had been erratic, covering the worst of the war—until now.

Now, it was fixated on one battle.

No—on one man.

At first, it didn’t make sense. The Eastern Front was beyond saving, the largest Gate ever recorded had already shattered, and the Dragon Army—the strongest force in the entire war—had been unleashed.

That region should have been nothing but devastation.

Yet there he was.

Hunter Sung Jinwoo.

Alone.

For a moment, there was confusion.

He stood in the middle of the Eastern Front, black armor drenched in regal violet light of otherworldly mana, his long coat swaying in the wind. No apparent shadow army at his back. No reinforcements.

And then—

He raised his arms.

NEW YORK CITY, TIMES SQUARE

The crowd stopped pushing.

It happened in waves—first the people near the screens, then those further back, until even the ones who hadn’t seen yet felt the tension in the air.

A soldier directing evacuees lowered his rifle, eyes locked on the footage.

A teenage boy, who had been crying into his mother’s shoulder, lifted his head.

A businessman, still gripping his suitcase like it mattered, muttered under his breath, “No way…”

And then—

The air changed.

It shouldn’t have been possible. This was a broadcast.

But somehow, the weight of his mana was there, pressing against the edges of their perception, settling into their bones—even from halfway across the world. A chill crawled up every spine.

Even the news anchors on the live feed, shouting over each other in panic—

Stopped.

All of them.

Not planned. Not coordinated.

Just a synchronized, speechless silence.

Their eyes were wide, their mouths were still open, still forming words—

But nothing came out.

Because they saw it.

LONDON, TRAFALGAR SQUARE

The jumbotrons above the plaza flickered, capturing the impossible.

Thousands of wyverns and dragonkin filled the sky—a monstrous, writhing storm of wings and fire, so vast they darkened the horizon. They had already begun their descent, their jaws opening to unleash hellfire.

And then—

Sung Jinwoo’s hands clenched.

[Ruler's Authority, Lvl. Max]

.

—And the sky collapsed. 

JOHANNESBURG, MANDELA SQUARE

BAM.

The first wyvern hit the ground.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

The next. And the next.

One by one, hundreds of dragons, each weighing thousands of tons, were ripped from the air by an unnatural force and slammed into the earth.

People flinched as the impact shook the ground beneath them, even though they were an ocean away.

A man stumbled against a market stall, gripping the edge like the earth itself was tipping sideways.

A teenage boy squeezed his mother’s hand so tight his fingers went numb. “I felt that!”

His mother said nothing.

Because she had felt it too.

RIO DE JANEIRO, COPACABANA BEACH

A Brazilian military officer’s radio crackled with panicked chatter.

“—Did you feel—”
“—Earthquake?!—”
“—That wasn’t an earthquake—”

A local fisherman slowly took off his hat, his eyes fixed on the screen showing the live feed.

The camera zoomed in on the battlefield, locking onto Hunter Sung Jinwoo standing alone.

His shadow stretched.

The ground beneath his feet split open.

The fallen wyverns and dragonkin—all of them—lay in a crater of their own making, their bodies twisted and shattered from the sheer force of their impact.

It had only taken one moment.

One gesture.

One man.

And the sky had bowed to him.

The fisherman exhaled, voice hoarse with disbelief. “…Is he even human?”

No one answered.

Because in that moment—

The entire world had stopped to witness the impossible.

LOCATION: WESTERN FRONT – UNITED STATES MILITARY STRONGHOLD

[FILE LOG 5: THE MONARCHS' WAR - CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

"Hold the line! HOLD THE FUCKING LINE!"

The words barely meant anything anymore.

The defensive perimeter was falling apart. What was left of the U.S. military, NATO forces, and the last of the West’s elite Hunters were dug in behind makeshift barricades—crushed tanks, collapsed buildings, anything that could slow the enemy’s advance.

And still, the Iron Body Monarch’s army kept coming.

Ogres, orcs, massive humanoid creatures with muscles so thick they might as well have been walking tanks. Bullets did jack shit. Explosions barely slowed them down.

Every second they held was a miracle.

Every second they failed, the Northeast United States edged closer to becoming another fucking Canada.

.

Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto—entire cities reduced to craters. Millions dead. And if this front collapsed, New York, Boston, D.C.—they’d be next.

"We can't hold—WE CAN’T HOLD—"

An entire squad of soldiers disappeared beneath an ogre’s warhammer, their screams cut off instantly.

A lieutenant near the barricades ripped off his headset, throwing it down with a snarl. "Where the FUCK is our backup!?"

Then the ground shook.

.

Something hit the battlefield like a meteor, sending shockwaves rippling through the earth.

No, not something.

A massive figure rose from the dust, broad-shouldered, monstrous in size, a human wrecking ball of raw muscle and power. His armored knuckles cracked like gunshots as he rolled his shoulders, an almost amused grin pulling at his face.

Behind him, the Scavenger Guild descended.

Christopher Reed landed like a ghost, flicking dust off his sleeves, looking more annoyed than anything. Lennart Niemann stood beside him, exhaling hard, muttering something in German that sure as hell sounded like a prayer.

And then, Thomas Andre, clad in his half-torn signature patterned Hawaiian shirt.

"Y’all look like you could use a hand."

Soldiers stared, stunned. Someone sucked in a breath, half-laughing, in hysteria —half in disbelief.

"Just like Kamish, huh?"

Thomas smirked. “Nah.” He dug his feet into the dirt, golden mana rippling around him like a goddamn earthquake waiting to happen. “This time, we’re fucking ready. LET'S GO!”

And then, he charged.

.

The first hit broke the sound barrier.

Thomas’s fist connected with an ogre’s chest, and half the battlefield collapsed. The shockwave alone sent monsters hurtling backward, the impact cratering the ground like a meteor strike.

Christopher vanished, reappearing inside enemy lines, breaking necks so fast the bodies hadn’t even fallen before he moved to the next, magical fire unleashing at his wake.

Lennart unleashed a howling storm, the air itself sharpening into spears that tore orcs apart limb from limb.

The U.S. military finally fucking rallied. Gunfire roared again. Rockets launched. For the first time in hours, they weren’t just surviving. They were fighting back.

And then—

A slow, deliberate footstep.

The battlefield froze.

The Iron Body Monarch stepped forward, his molten veins glowing against his obsidian-black skin, radiating heat like an open furnace. His pale-gold, burning eyes locked onto Thomas.

“Ah. You’re that weak vessel who was almost killed by the Fang Monarch.”

Thomas exhaled sharply, rolling his neck. Man, he was really fucking tired of hearing about that.

The Monarch grinned, flexing his fingers. Mana pulsed outward, thick enough to press against the air like an oncoming tidal wave. Behind Thomas, he heard some of the soldiers inhale sharply, their bodies instinctively reacting to a presence that could flatten entire nations.

He didn’t move.

Because unlike them, he knew exactly what was coming next.

The Monarch exhaled, smug as all hell. And then, like the dumbass he was—

He released his mana.

A wave of crushing force exploded outward, curling into the battlefield like a stormfront of raw, living power. Thomas felt it sink into his bones, roll through the earth—

Except.

It stopped.

Not because he resisted it.

Because something else swallowed it.

The Monarch’s sneer faltered. Thomas sighed, tilting his head back. Whatever the hell Jinwoo had planned better fucking work—because if this was about to backfire, he was personally punching that shadowy bastard into next week.

“…This should do it, right?”

The ground rippled.

A thick, inky darkness leached from beneath his boots, spreading outward like spilled oil, seeping into the cracks of the battlefield.

The Iron Body Monarch’s eye twitched.

Thomas smirked. “What’s wrong? Thought you had me, big guy?”

Then, a voice.

Low, polite—the kind of polite that had weight behind it, the kind that made something deep in your gut twist in warning.

Thomas didn’t turn.

He didn’t have to.

Jinwoo had already told him exactly how this would play out, laid it out in that calm, matter-of-fact way of his, like it wasn’t the most insane, over-the-top strategy ever conceived. Lure them in, let them think they have control, and when the time comes… we erase them.

Thomas hadn’t questioned it. Not because he fully understood how Jinwoo planned to pull it off, but because he’d seen it before—the way the kid fought, the way he moved, the way his power bled into the battlefield like it had always belonged there. It was like watching a goddamn force of nature take shape, and honestly? Thomas wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more fucking beautiful.

The ground beneath him pulsed.

Not violently. Not with any grand, world-shaking explosion. It was quiet—wrongly quiet. The shadows stretched outward, thick and ink-like, spilling into the cracks of the battlefield, creeping between the bodies, into the spaces where they had no right to be. Waiting.

And then, they rose.

The air changed, heavy in a way that settled deep, like the weight of something too vast to be contained. Bellion stepped forward first, his towering form unfolding from the abyss with effortless precision. His four bladed arms rested at his sides, burning violet eyes locking onto the Iron Body Monarch with the patience of someone who already knew exactly how this would end.

And then, he spoke.

"It has been a long while, King of Monstrous Humanoids."

Thomas let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face, half-laughing, half in disbelief. Goddamn it, Jinwoo.

The shadows weren’t done. A regal knight in armor took his place beside Bellion, his sword humming with quiet, absolute certainty. The former King of the Ants followed, its wings vibrating in eager anticipation, movements too still for something that should be alive.

And then, as if the battlefield itself had cracked open—

The rest came.

Not dozens. Not thousands.

An entire fucking army.

One hundred and thirty thousand shadows, risen from Thomas, from Chris, from Lennart, from the Hunters both alive and dead—their own shadows turned against the enemy in perfect, merciless betrayal. A Trojan Horse straight out of Greek legend in its most terrifying form—not carved from wood, but from the dead.

Thomas exhaled sharply, shaking his head, half-laughing, half in something dangerously close to awe.

The air had changed, thick with the weight of inevitability. This wasn’t a battle anymore.

It was a slaughter.

Lennart rolled his shoulders, his grin sharp, wild. Christopher let out a low chuckle, flexing his fingers. They had all fought in hopeless wars, had seen battlefields where survival was the only victory.

—and this was the first time they stood on the side of absolute annihilation.

And the poor bastard across from them had just realized it.

The Iron Body Monarch’s pale-gold eyes flickered, not with fear—never fear—but something darker. He wasn’t dead yet, still a Monarch, still a being made for war and destruction. But for the first time, he understood.

Because this wasn’t just an ambush.

It was a fucking execution.

Jinwoo had played the battlefield like a goddamn master, dragging every other Monarch—including Antares himself—to the Eastern Front, leaving the Iron Body Monarch stranded, isolated, cornered with no way out.

The Monarch snarled, mana crackling as he reached out, grasping for anything—

But nothing answered.

No army. No reinforcements. Not even Antares.

Because the mighty Dragon Monarch was too busy fighting one human—one human— who had dared to play Monarch.

"That fucking human…"

The Iron Body Monarch’s jaw clenched, realization sinking into his very bones. This battlefield was never his. It had already been claimed.

"Oh, you magnificent bastard." Thomas muttered, grinning. Lennart cracked his neck. Christopher exhaled, shaking off the last bit of tension.

The shadows surged forward.

And the slaughter began.

LOCATION: WESTERN FRONT, SOUTHERN FRONT, EASTERN FRONT, SEOUL BUNKER 
[FILE LOG 6: THE MONARCHS' WAR – CODE NAME: "APOCALYPSE"]

ACCRA, GHANA - AFRICAN HUNTER UNION WAR ROOM

African Hunter Union Chairperson and Ghana President Kojo Mensah pressed a trembling hand against his forehead, exhaling slowly. The war room smelled of sweat, ink, and steel—the stifling mix of too many bodies packed in too little space, of old paper maps spread across polished mahogany, of computers humming with the last vestiges of order in a world collapsing.

They had just reestablished communication with the Western Front.

They should be relieved.

And yet, the latest reports made no sense.

The Iron Body Monarch’s army had been crushed. Not just defeated—wiped from existence.

He had listened to the frantic report from his military advisors, his Minister of Defense gripping the edge of the war table so tightly his knuckles had gone white. They spoke of shadows rising from nowhere, of an entire army standing once more—but under new command.

Mensah had no time to process it. Because while the West had been reclaimed, the East was still burning.

And if the Eastern Front fell… the Southern Front was next.

A breath hitched in his throat. He looked down at the map of the continent, at the last remaining strongholds marked in red, the slow advance of chaos creeping toward their borders. The evacuation wasn’t finished. If the East collapsed, they would not have time.

He turned toward one of the screen operators, voice tight. "Give me the latest feed from the East."

The soldier hesitated. "Sir, the transmission is… unstable. The battlefield is—"

"Now."

The screen flickered, static crackling across the speakers.

Then, the feed snapped into place.

The Eastern Front.

A wasteland of burning cities. A sky full of war.

And a lone figure in black armor, standing at the center of it all.

Kojo's breath stilled.

That Hunter. Jinwoo Sung**.

The portals were still open. The Army of Destruction was still pouring through. Despite everything—the impossible power, the gods-forsaken might that had wiped the wyverns from the sky—

It still wasn’t enough.

.

.

SOUTH KOREA, GYEONGGI-DO - GWANGJU EVACUATION ROUTES

Baek Yoonho’s claws ripped through sinew and bone, his final opponent collapsing in a heap at his feet. The beast barely had time to let out a dying snarl before it hit the ground. Blood steamed against his skin, the acrid scent of charred flesh and burning mana thick in the air, but it barely registered.

He didn’t stop to breathe.

Didn’t stop to think.

He just kept moving.

The evacuation wasn’t finished.

Ahead of him, Choi Jongin stood atop the wreckage of a collapsed highway, barking orders through his comm, his hands wreathed in fire. With a sweep of his arms, a roaring inferno engulfed the last cluster of beasts trying to breach the barricade. The heat warped the air, turning the world into a haze of molten gold.

Cha Haein moved within it like a phantom.

She flowed between the flames, sword gleaming in the firelight, her movements precise and brutally efficient. The creatures never even touched the ground—she cut them apart before they could fall, before their corpses could hit the dirt, before they could even realize they had been struck down.

There was no time to stop.

No time to hesitate.

Jongin reached for his comm again, contacting Son Kihoon who was leading the second strike team, barely pausing as he cut down another beast lunging toward the last convoy. "South Route is clear—moving to—"

And then, without warning—

It hit.

A pulse.

A shift.

A presence.

Yoonho staggered. His enhanced beast sense went haywire. It crawled beneath his skin, settled deep into his bones, heavy, suffocating.

Cha Haein froze mid-strike, her blade poised but unmoving. The battlefield around her faded into the background, the clash of weapons, the surge of mana, the distant cries of Hunters all dulling under the weight of something else—a memory.

"Promise me."

"Hae-In—"

"Promise you'll come back to me. When it’s over, promise you'll come to find me."

There had been a pause. Not hesitation—never that. Just the weight of everything unsaid, pressing between them.

And then, his answer.

"I promise."

Her grip on her sword tightened.

The mana around her trembled.

Yoonho barely had time to register the shift before Choi Jongin faltered, his flames flickering—his control slipping, just barely, just enough.

The air around them was changing.

Not swelling. Not exploding.

Spreading.

Like the very fabric of the world was being pulled, stretched, rewritten into something else.

The war wasn’t over.

But something had changed.

This time—

—it wasn’t the Monarchs who held the reins.

.

.

BEIJING AND TOKYO ALL-OUT BATTLEGROUNDS

In Beijing, Liu Zhigang and the China Emergency Hunter Alliance paused mid-battle, blades and spells stilling as the battlefield rippled with something unseen. It wasn’t an explosion, wasn’t a new monster descending from the gates—no, it was something else.

Something beneath their feet, in the air, pressing against their skin like a storm before the thunder.

Liu exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his sword. He had felt this before.

But never like this.

In Tokyo, Kanae Tawata carved through a cyclops in a clean arc, her twin katana cutting through its neck as easily as silk. The monster crumpled, and she landed lightly on the cracked pavement, already turning—

Only for her knees to nearly give out.

Her mana reacted first.

A wave of force surged through the air, thick and oppressive, sinking into her bones, rattling through her very breath. Familiar. Just like how it was in Tokyo back then.

It was him.

But it wasn’t like before.

This was something else.

Something bigger.

And then—

They felt it.

A pulse.

A shift in the very fabric of the battlefield.

Liu’s gaze snapped to the sky. Kanae’s grip tightened around her sword.

Something was coming.

.

.

ONE OF SEOUL'S EMERGENCY BUNKERS

Jinah had long since stopped checking the time. The bunker had existed in an endless haze of low voices, murmured prayers, the static hum of emergency broadcasts that had played on loop for hours. The tension in the air was suffocating, pressing against her ribs, but she barely noticed. Her hands were curled into her mother’s sleeve, fingers twisted in the fabric, white-knuckled and cold.

She wasn’t the only one.

All around them, families huddled close, their faces illuminated only by the flickering glow of massive overhead screens. The world outside was burning, and the only thing left to do was watch.

The news anchor’s voice cracked through the silence, raw with exhaustion and something dangerously close to hysteria.

"R-Reports are coming in that an uncountable number of gates have formed in the skies above South Korea—seemingly concentrating where Hunter Sung Jinwoo was last seen felling the dragons. We… we are unsure if this is a new phase of the battle, or—hold on, we’ve just received a live feed—"

The anchor’s voice trembled over the speakers, the hesitation laced with something between disbelief and dread.

Jinah sucked in a breath as the screen flickered, the image snapping into focus.

There was something deeply surreal about standing among thousands of terrified civilians, watching her brother at the very center of the apocalypse. The distance between them had never felt wider.

The last time she had seen him—really seen him—he had been standing in their tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly stirring a pot of kimchi-jjigae. She had complained about the smell, teased him about making a mess of Mom’s kitchen. He had only laughed, setting out an extra bowl for her even before she could ask.

Like it was just another evening. Like nothing was about to change.

But looking back, it had been obvious. He had been too careful, too quiet, moving through that small, familiar space with the kind of ease that came with knowing it might be the last time. Every glance at her, every soft smile at their mother—it had all been goodbye, and she hadn’t even noticed.

.

The battlefield was worse than she’d imagined. Worse than anything the broadcasts had shown before. A graveyard of twisted metal, broken bodies, and blackened earth stretched endlessly across the horizon. The sky itself was splintered apart with countless Gates, pouring forth the remnants of the Monarchs’ armies, blotting out the sun.

And yet, amidst the chaos, amidst the roaring abyss of war, a single figure tore through the hordes.

Her brother.

His black armor was cracked, streaked with the blood of magic beasts, the long coat behind him tattered and torn. Yet he remained upright, unwavering, his silhouette dark against the burning horizon—a shadow even the gods could not erase.

Jinah’s breath hitched as the camera zoomed in, framing his face in stark, unforgiving clarity.

And then, for the first time since the battle had begun, Jinwoo stopped moving.

The chaos raged on around him—flames devouring the wreckage, the skies still split open with countless Gates, monstrous beings continued to pour out of them—converging on one lone hunter who dared to stand up against them—the earth trembling beneath the weight of an unending war. But in that rare instant of stillness, as if fate itself had chosen to hold its breath—

He smiled.

A hush fell over the bunker.

Jinah barely felt her mother’s fingers tightening around her wrist, the tremor in her grip betraying what words could not express. What the heck was Oppa doing?! Alone!!? GET OUT—DON'T BE STUPID—RUN—GET—

—The screen flickered, the faint hum of the broadcast trembling as if the very world had narrowed itself down to that one moment, to that single figure standing alone in the storm.

The battlefield, the monsters, the Gates—all of it faded into irrelevance as he raised his hand, fingers curling.

The light around him died.

The shadows deepened.

And then, across every battlefield, in every corner of the world where death had touched the land—

A single word rang out, drifting through the silence like a king's decree.

"Arise."

A soundless shockwave rippled outward, not seen, not heard, but felt—a shift in the very foundation of the world.

Jinah flinched as the bunker screens flickered, war footage stuttering, struggling to keep up. The anchor’s voice faltered, tripping over his own words as the camera feeds exploded with new motion.

Because the shadows were moving.

Everywhere.

The war-torn wastelands of the Eastern Front.
The bloodied remnants of the Western battlefield.
The scorched cities of China, Japan, Russia, America.

Every single fallen magic beast, wyvern, dragon, dragonkin, ogre, orc, cyclops, lizard-kind, giant, demon —every corpse that had touched the battlefield, every slain monster, every warrior of the Monarchs’ armies—

They rose—as his shadows.

The anchor was gasping, his words unraveling into panicked stammers as the screen feeds struggled to process the impossible sight.

"Th-the dead… th-they’re standing… no, no, not standing, they—"

Jinah watched as the camera refocused, the battlefield snapping back into view.

And there, where the broken bodies of the wyverns had once been strewn across the battlefield, a new army stood.

Their corpses remained where they had fallen—charred, lifeless husks, torn apart by battle.

But their shadows…

Their shadows had risen.

Towering figures, wreathed in violet energy, their forms no longer bound by flesh, but reforged in the image of their new master. Their eyes gleamed with regal, burning light, their presence thrumming with the same overwhelming power that pulsed through the one who had called them back from the abyss.

A hush fell over the bunker.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t the stunned silence of disbelief that had gripped them for so long.

It was something else.

It started as a breath, a hushed murmur rippling through the room—half a question, half an answer.

"The Shadow Monarch."

The whisper spread, caught between voices wavering with reverence and raw, unfiltered awe.

"The Shadow Monarch…?"

"That’s… that’s what the monsters called him—"

"I thought it was just them, but—"

"That’s what the enemy called him—the Shadow Monarch."

Jinah’s stomach twisted as a ripple of sound moved through the bunker—not gasps of fear, not the stunned silence that had gripped them for so long, but something else entirely.

Across the bunker, a mother clutching her child let out a trembling sob, her relief breaking through in choked whispers of prayer. A man beside her exhaled a shaky laugh, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

And in another bunker, deep beneath Busan, a young woman sat among the evacuees, hands clasped tightly to her chest.

Lee Juhee, who had once healed a broken, bleeding hunter in a freezing dungeon.

Lee Juhee, who had been there when Sung Jinwoo was just a man barely scraping by, too stubborn to die, too kind to turn away from those who needed help.

Not as the weak E-rank she had once known.

Not even as the powerful hunter she had once feared losing.

But as something greater.

As something terrible, divine, and irrefutable.

Her breath hitched, tears slipping down her face as the bunker around her erupted into cries of relief. She didn’t try to stop them.

She only whispered his name.

"Jinwoo-ssi…"

Hope—thin, uncertain, but real—spread across bunkers and strongholds around the world.

For the first time, the Monarchs’ forces were no longer endless—hopeless.

Now, humanity was on the offensive.

.

The anchor’s voice cracked over the speakers, breathless and shaking.

"Oh my god."

.

.

.

PRESENT DAY

For a guild with three whole members, Ahjin was never empty.

I walked in with Songyi at my side, hoodie up—not because I was hiding, but because hoodies dramatically reduced my chances of social interaction. Scientifically proven.

The lobby was buzzing, as usual.

Hunters in jackets from different guilds loitered around, pretending to have business here. Some stood near the café, waiting for coffee that had definitely already been ready five minutes ago. Others were hovering way too close to the reception desk, like maybe today was the day Oppa magically materialized from the elevator to bless them with his presence.

Spoiler: He was not going to do that.

A group of doctoral students from SNU (read: Seoul National University) were clustered near the front desk, covertly recording their surroundings like they were on a wildlife research expedition.

Their hushed discussion sounded one thesis paper away from completely unraveling.

"Mana density fluctuations are still unexplained. The values from the Antares battle shouldn’t be possible."

"We don’t even have instruments that can measure that level of output. It’s like trying to quantify a tsunami using a bucket."

"Look, at this point, we either redefine mana classifications or just start calling anything we can’t explain a ‘Sung-type anomaly.’"

A pause.

Then, quietly, one of them muttered, “Honestly, might as well.”

Meanwhile, a cluster of undergrads were hunched over their laptops, debating mana convergence theories with the kind of aggressive intensity usually reserved for final exams.

"You’re telling me he ripped open a dimensional space without destabilizing local mana fields?"

"Yes, because physics decided to tap out when he showed up."

"I swear to God, if I have to rewrite my entire research paper because of him—"

The student gestured violently at the air, as if Sung Jinwoo personally owed them an apology.

Across the room, hunters had their eyes glued to battle footage.

One group was reviewing a guild raid gone wrong, rewinding a moment where their front-liner ate an attack they absolutely should have dodged.

"See there? He should’ve braced two steps to the right before impact. The boss’s attack pattern follows a pivot-strike, not a full sweep—he put himself in the wrong defensive zone."

"Yeah, but look at the way the boss adjusted. That hesitation means it has adaptive targeting. I’d bet money it learns mid-battle."

A few tables over, a pair of hunters were analyzing a fight between two S-rankers, voices low as they debated combat styles.

"If you’re relying on a speed-based stance, you can’t afford a single misstep. Did you see how he dodged that third strike? The momentum shift nearly ruined his balance."

"That’s because he’s using an acceleration-based footwork technique. No solid base. Great for evasion, but the moment you get caught, you’re done."

Meanwhile, another group was deep in a dungeon monster classification argument.

"We had a B-rank gate last week, but the creatures inside had mana readings closer to mid-A."

"Yeah, same issue here—monster categories aren’t fitting neatly into the old rankings anymore. Hybridization is getting more common."

"Not just hybridization. Mana densification. Even low-tier dungeons are showing surge patterns that weren’t there before."

I barely held back a sigh.

It was one thing for S-rank gates to become a problem. But if even low-tier dungeons were shifting?

Yeah. That was going to be everyone’s problem soon enough.

Guild hunters were here, too.

Near the entrance, a few men in the scarlet uniforms of the Hunters Guild stood quietly, watching the space with unreadable expressions. Their guildmaster, Choi Jong-In, had a habit of hovering around Ahjin—or the KHA headquarters—something about he and Oppa striking an odd camaraderie because they were both mage-types.

A little further down, a few White Tiger Guild members were speaking in hushed tones, probably discussing guild finances.

(Translation: trying to figure out how to stay relevant in a world where Oppa existed.)

And in the far side of the lounge, two hunters in Fiend Guild jackets were quietly sipping their coffee, completely unbothered by the chaos.

I nudged Songyi. “Fiend Guild?”

She glanced over. “Yeah, Lim Taegyu’s people. Probably waiting on Jinho Oppa.”

That made sense. Fiend Guild wasn’t big, but they were smart. Lim Taegyu had been one of the first guild leaders to align with Oppa after Jeju. Even if they didn’t have the numbers of White Tiger or the prestige of Hunters, they had a solid reputation.

Still, at least half of the conversations happening had nothing to do with business.

“…Did you see the footage from the gate in Argentina?”

“Hunter Sung solo-cleared another one?”

“No, not just cleared it. He shadow-teleported between two collapsing mana fields while fighting and still got out completely fine.”

“...I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds epic.”

A few feet away, a group of hunters were gathered around a tablet, replaying footage from one of his most recent battles. The image on the screen was paused, showing Jinwoo mid-action, dagger buried in some massive creature’s chest.

One of them let out a low whistle. “No matter how many times I replay it, it never looks real.”

His friend sighed. “I just want to know how he does all this and then vanishes. No press, no interviews. Just—” He waved vaguely. “Poof.”

They all nodded solemnly, as if my brother’s complete disregard for public recognition was some great, unsolvable mystery.

Honestly, he's just shy and anti-social.

A few foreign guild reps hovered near the café, pretending to enjoy their drinks but very obviously lingering within earshot of important conversations.

Near the reception desk, the usual government officials sat hunched over their tablets, muttering like overworked bureaucrats on the verge of a collective breakdown.

The reason?

Oppa had, yet again, left the Siddharth Bachchan—India’s National-level hunter—on read.

“Did he ever reply?” one of them asked, sounding painfully resigned.

“No,” his colleague sighed.

“Did he at least acknowledge the request?”

The man looked down at his tablet, voice grim. “He opened the message.”

A long pause.

Then, with the weight of someone who had suffered through too many Sung Jinwoo-related diplomatic struggles:

“…That’s something.”

I cackled so suddenly that a nearby hunter flinched.

Songyi whacked my arm. “Could you be normal?”

“Absolutely not.”

Honestly, they were acting like this was personal.

Oppa probably just forgot. Not some strategic silence, not some deliberate power move—just regular, everyday Sung Jinwoo forgetting to reply.

Even my messages got left on read sometimes.

I made a mental note to laugh at him later for ghosting the Indian National Hunter like he was some spam caller.

We cut through the chaos, sidestepping a cluster of Scavenger Guild members in their ridiculously American jackets.

“I’m telling you,” one of them muttered, shaking his head, “Ahjin doesn’t just run on three people.”

His friend scowled. “Jinho Yoo’s an administrative genius, Soohyun Yoo** is a wildcard, and a case of nepotism, and Hunter Sung—” He hesitated, lowering his voice like the name alone might summon him.

“…He doesn’t need a team.”

Silence.

Then, grimly: “That’s worse.”

I wheezed.

Near the lounge area, a few local hunters were deep in conversation, voices lowered.

“…The dungeon market’s shifting. Fewer S-rank gates are opening these days.”

“Yeah, but now we’ve got SS+ ranked gates. Even that famous guild in Poland—the one with six S-ranks—struggled with their last one.”

A scoff. “Struggled? I heard two of them were hospitalized.”

The first hunter exhaled through his nose. “And we’re just getting started.”

A few feet away, another hunter muttered, “Mid-tier gates are getting weirder, too. We had a B-rank last week that mutated mid-raid.”

“Mutation rates are increasing?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly, “I don’t know. But it felt different.”

Not far from them, two government agents leaned against a wall, flipping through reports.

“Any progress on the North Korean mana field?”

“Minimal,” the second agent murmured. “The readings are unstable. We’re worried it’ll attract something worse.”

“Worse than last time?”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “Yes.”

I exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to shake my head.

SS+ gates, mutated mid-tier dungeons, mana fields on the verge of collapse—

Yeah. Probably not great.

Not my problem, though. 

Near the far side of the lounge, a man in an expensive navy suit sat sipping coffee, scrolling his phone with the casual ease of someone who absolutely did not belong here.

Not a hunter. Not a businessman.

Something about him—his posture, the way his assistants hovered around him like nervous ghosts, the crisp, tailored look of his suit—felt off.

I nudged Songyi. “Hey. That guy’s important, right?”

She barely glanced up from her phone, looking at some Tiktok about an alpaca biting a poor guy's butt. “Huh?”

“That guy over there,” I said, jerking my chin toward the lounge.

Songyi squinted. Took in the well-groomed hair, the diplomatic-looking entourage, the assistants muttering something urgent in hushed voices.

“…Dunno,” she admitted. “Probably some big-shot foreign rep?”

Before I could speculate further, one of the aides leaned in, lowering his voice.

“…Mr. President, perhaps we should coordinate through official channels first—”

President.

President?

I blinked. “Wait. Did they just say President?”

Songyi’s head snapped up so fast I heard her neck crack.

We stared.

Songyi whispered, “Oh my god, he’s a president.”

"Which president?" I whispered back.

Songyi gave me an incredulous look. “I don’t know! He’s Caucasian! That narrows it down to, like, half of Europe and America?!”

A few feet away, one of his assistants—a very stressed-looking woman in glasses—kept nervously checking the time.

“…We should have coordinated with the Blue House first.”

Oh.

Oh no.

I did a quick scan of the room.

And sure enough—standing stiffly near the entrance, pretending to be on his phone, was none other than Minister Oh of Foreign Affairs.

A very high-ranking official in President Kim’s administration.

A man who absolutely should not be here without an entire security detail.

I grabbed Songyi’s arm. “Why is the Minister of Foreign Affairs here?”

She inhaled sharply. “Oh my god.”

My brain connected the dots.

“…Songyi, do you think the actual President of Korea is here, too?”

We turned slowly toward the designated waiting area.

The section where reporters and lower-level government officials were seated, murmuring amongst themselves.

Was… was President Kim just sitting in there?

Had Korea’s actual head of state also been told to wait his turn?