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Chapter Text

The pain in his head came crashing down like a sledgehammer, brutal and unforgiving. A dull ringing filled his ears, making him groan as he curled up on a surface that felt unfamiliar. His hand lazily rose to block out the sunlight seeping through a gap in the worn-out curtain.

He cursed under his breath.

“Shit... damn it...”

He knew exactly what caused the pain. It wasn’t a curse or some strange illness—it was his own doing.

What did he expect after downing who-knows-how-many bottles of alcohol in the middle of a hot, humid summer night? Waking up fresh like in some energy drink commercial?

He let out a long, exhausted sigh. Forcing his eyes open, he blinked a few times until his vision adjusted to the light. But... something felt wrong.

“Ugh... Where am I?”

This room definitely wasn’t his small, rundown studio apartment. The walls were stained, the ceiling corners marked with water damage. Used cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, and the floor felt cold beneath him. The ceiling light didn’t work, but sunlight was enough to illuminate the depressing details of the room.

He slowly sat up, scanning the room with growing confusion and unease.

A run-down motel? Did he, in a drunken state, really rent out a cheap motel room and pass out on this thin excuse for a mattress?

He raised a hand to his face, instinctively searching for his glasses...

They weren’t there. Yet strangely, everything looked crystal clear. No blur. No haze. He could see perfectly without them.

"...What the hell?"

Ignoring the pounding in his head, he pushed himself to his feet, one hand bracing against the cold wall for balance. He needed the bathroom. Cold water. Something to help him think straight.

But clarity never came.

When his eyes met the reflection in the dusty bathroom mirror, he froze. One second. Two seconds. Then—

“WHAT?!”

His scream echoed in the small space, full of panic and disbelief. His body staggered back, falling in a rather dramatic fashion—like a scene from a bad comedy—and his head hit the cold tile floor.

Another surge of pain shot through him, stacking on top of the headache.

“Great. Just great,” he muttered sarcastically.

With a groan, he sat up. This time, he reached for the light switch on the wall. The dim bathroom light flickered on, just enough to confirm that the mirror wasn’t lying.

The face staring back at him wasn’t his.

The young man in the mirror looked at least five years younger. Long, messy black hair, pale skin, heavy dark circles under the eyes. His face was thin—no, gaunt. Like he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

He didn’t recognize him at all.

“What the actual fuck...”

He lifted a hand to his cheek. The reflection did the same. The only confirmation that he wasn’t dreaming... or hallucinating from a hangover.

And then—a voice.

Not from outside.

Inside his head.

Clear. Cold. Emotionless.

[Welcome, Candidate Guide No. 049]

[Status: Initial Synchronization Successful]

[Complete the main mission within 90 days or face fatal consequences.]

[Main Mission: Register as an Official Guide and complete synchronization with Class A Esper.]

Gunwoo’s eyes widened.

“…What the hell is going on now…”

Suddenly, the headache felt like the least of his problems.

His name was Ryu Gunwoo.

Or at least, that was the name he had known all his life—the name he wrote on his failed civil exam paper just yesterday.

That thought stabbed at his temple, just as sharply as the headache that hadn’t left since he first opened his eyes in this unfamiliar place. The bitter aftertaste of alcohol still lingered faintly in his throat, like a regret he hadn’t fully swallowed.

Gunwoo let out a quiet sigh.

A translucent blue box—a hologram that had appeared at some unknown point—still floated steadily before his eyes, like a projection of reality far too absurd to accept.

 [Welcome, Candidate Guide No. 049]

[Initial Synchronization Complete.]

[Register as an Official Guide within 90 days.]

[Failure to comply will result in fatal consequences.]

 

To be honest, Gunwoo wasn’t as surprised as he had been earlier.

His dramatic reaction—the panicked shouting, the fall in the bathroom, even the string of curses—had already passed, swallowed up by confusion and disbelief. Now, only a lingering sense of unfamiliarity remained, settled quietly between the furrows of his brow.

“…What the hell is going on…”

He leaned against the old, worn-out wall of the motel room, watching the thin sunlight bleed through the curtain and outline the floating blue window before him. What kind of world had brought him here?

His mind drifted back to yesterday—to the empty bottles on the table, the broken fan humming faintly in the corner, and the crushing weight of despair that one person couldn’t bear in a single night.

And now, here he was.

In a different body.

With a name that wasn’t his.

Lowering his gaze, Gunwoo noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up, unfolding it with a strange heaviness in his chest.

Sloppy handwriting greeted him. The final words of someone who had decided they had nothing left to hold onto.

A suicide note.

> Today’s my birthday. I thought it might be better to stop here.

Thank you for reading.

I hope no one blames anyone. I’m just… tired.

– Park Moondae

That name… Park Moondae.

Someone he had never even heard of before waking up in this body. A 20-year-old young man, an orphan, a victim of bullying, who eventually stopped trying altogether.

Gunwoo closed his eyes for a moment. There was a strange silence in his chest. He recognized that feeling—an emptiness born from a life lived too alone.

With a small, bitter smile, he muttered under his breath, “Well… I guess I was an orphan too.”

He hadn’t come from a happy family. Since childhood, his life had been an endless uphill climb. Though he made it into university, his dreams had never really been allowed to grow freely. The civil exam had been his only way out—and failing it yesterday was a hole he couldn’t avoid.

“Maybe getting completely wasted in summer counts as an accidental suicide attempt,” he muttered, half-mocking himself.

Gunwoo glanced back at the mirror. Park Moondae’s face stared back—sunken eyes, dark circles, and a hollow gaze that was all too familiar to someone who had lived alone for far too long.

The question now was—had they switched bodies?

But if that were the case, where was Ryu Gunwoo’s body now?

And why did the system refer to him as ‘Guide No. 049’?

His eyes drifted back to the still-floating hologram.

Something about that message felt… too real.

If this was transmigration, it meant he was no longer in his own world.

If this was a game-like system, then his life now had a mission.

And if he failed…

Gunwoo took a deep breath.

There would be no second chance.

Ironically, it was the suicide letter that became his main source of information—his only clue to understanding who Park Moondae was and what kind of life he had left behind in this shabby motel.

On the small table near the thin mattress, he found a wallet, a folded piece of bank paperwork, and a modest amount of cash. All of it, according to the letter, was the last inheritance Moondae received after his parents passed away.

It wasn’t much, but enough to survive a few months without needing to work.

Still, there was no way he’d use that money recklessly.

“I’m sorry, Moondae… I’ll repay it after I become an official Guide. And the rest—we’ll donate it, just like you wanted.”

No answer, of course. Just the slow whirring of the broken ceiling fan and a faint beam of light slipping past the dusty window curtain.

Gunwoo let out a quiet breath. He took a towel from an old bag in the corner and stepped into the narrow bathroom. Cold water ran down his neck and over the unfamiliar body—washing away the smell of stale alcohol, sweat, and despair.

After drying off, he changed into a cleaner set of clothes: a plain t-shirt and loose sweatpants that hung awkwardly on Moondae’s thin frame. He stood in front of the cracked mirror, staring at the gaunt face and long, unkempt hair.

"This hair needs to go," he murmured. "At least I won’t look like I crawled out of a nightmare."

Then, without another word, he closed his eyes and offered a quiet prayer—for the real Park Moondae, wherever he might be.

“I’ll protect what’s left of you. Your life… your name. I’ll make it mean something.”

He sat back on the mattress, the springs creaking faintly under him. The silence was strangely comforting now.

“…Status window. Show me my stats.”

The familiar blue hologram flickered to life again, clearer than before. The text shifted, rearranged into something that felt more like a game—or maybe a strange kind of reality.

[User Information]

 

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: Guide

 

Level: 0

Physical Strength: 0

Mental Strength: 1

Agility: 0

Stamina: 0

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: Exercise or die!

Side Quest: None

Gunwoo raised an eyebrow.

“…That daily mission sounds like a threat.”

But this was real. Too real. And that meant he needed to start moving forward—not just to survive, but to honor the life he'd suddenly been entrusted with.

He stared at the flickering hologram for a moment longer before rising to his feet.

“Alright then… Let’s start from the bottom.”

Chapter Text

In this universe, two types of gifted individuals stand out from the rest: Espers and Guides.

Espers—sometimes referred to as Sentinels—are individuals whose powers awaken from within their bodies. Most awaken at an early age, but rare cases show that abilities can also emerge during adulthood. Their powers vary widely in form and function, making it rare to find two Espers with exactly the same skill.

Even among those who wield the same elemental affinity, the differences are significant. For instance, a fire Esper might be able to unleash destructive flames from any location at will, while another can only channel their firepower through a weapon like a sword or gun. The core element might be similar, but the manifestation and control differ entirely.

To help navigate this complexity, Espers are ranked according to their strength and potential—categorized into levels that allow others to gauge their capabilities at a glance.

On the other side of the spectrum stand the Guides.

Though seemingly less dangerous, Guides are no less important. Their abilities fall into more structured categories—primarily healing and mental regulation. While all Guides possess a basic capacity for both, most individuals lean heavily toward one. Some are natural-born healers, while others are better suited to stabilizing the mental state of Espers in the field.

At the highest tier—S-Rank Guides—a rare balance is achieved. These Guides are powerful enough to perform advanced healing while simultaneously maintaining the mental equilibrium of Espers, even in high-pressure combat zones.

Despite their less combative nature, Guides are considered essential.

In fact, their presence is mandated by law.

Any mission carried out by an Esper must include a registered Guide. Without one, the mission is immediately deemed illegal, and both the Esper and their agency are subject to severe penalties. This isn’t just bureaucracy—it’s a necessity, born from decades of trial and tragedy.

Moondae sat quietly at a corner desk in the public library, a stack of government-issued handbooks and training guides spread out before him. He scribbled notes in a worn notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Espers, Guides… It’s like a whole different world.

Back in his original life, power didn’t come from within—it came from books, exams, and relentless effort. You studied, you passed, you worked, you survived. There were no elemental awakenings. No mental syncs. Just reality and rent.

That’s why all of this felt so foreign.

So instead of charging headfirst into his daily quest—Exercise or die, as it so kindly put it—Moondae had chosen to begin here, at the library. Information first. Survival second.

Thankfully, the Seoul of this world still bore a resemblance to the one he knew.

The streets were familiar. Buildings stood in recognizable places. Chain restaurants and cafés looked the same—except now, some shops catered specifically to Espers and Guides. Stores selling combat uniforms with embedded crystal cores, boutiques for synchronization tools, even coffee houses where Espers and Guides could “sync” over a drink.

It was surreal. Like waking up in a dream version of home.

He glanced around the quiet library. A few Espers lounged in chairs with glowing wrists—status monitors projected in real-time. One Guide sat across the room, softly humming as their fingers glowed green, helping a child heal a scraped knee. No one looked out of place. Everyone knew what they were. What they could do.

And Moondae?

He was still pretending to belong.

The alarm blared from his phone, the sound piercing through the quiet hush of the library.

A notification popped up on the screen, bright and intrusive:

“It’s time to check your daily mission.”

Moondae let out a long, resigned sigh. He closed the last book on his desk and leaned back in his chair, arms stretching above his head until his joints popped.

How long had he been studying the Esper and Guide system now? Seven hours? Maybe more. The light filtering through the windows had shifted into a soft orange glow. It was nearly nightfall.

Ignoring the sharp pang of hunger twisting in his stomach, he brought up the translucent status window, a holographic interface unique to this strange world. A flick of his fingers revealed today’s quest.

[Daily Mission – Beginner Level]

“Exercise or Die!”

 

Run: 15,000 steps

 

Sit-ups: 50

 

Push-ups: 50

 

Complete the mission to earn today’s reward. Failure will result in severe penalties.

Time remaining: 5 hours

Moondae frowned. "Fifteen thousand steps," he murmured under his breath. That didn’t sound too bad. Sit-ups and push-ups were manageable. And the reward system had proven useful before.

He weighed his options. Food first?

But no—better to finish the workout while he still had time. The hunger could wait. Besides, the quest was called “Exercise or Die!” for a reason.

He made the wrong choice.

He should’ve eaten. He really should’ve eaten first. 

Running through the chilly night on an empty stomach was pure hell. Whether it was Park Moondae’s body or Ryu Gunwoo’s original frame, one thing was clear: neither of them had the stamina for this.

His chest burned. His legs ached. His vision flickered every few minutes as his body screamed for calories he didn’t have.

He had never even jogged for more than ten minutes in his old life, always too busy cramming for exams. So what gave him the confidence to think he could pull this off?

Maybe it was the assumption that an Esper’s stamina would naturally surpass that of a regular human.

Maybe he thought the system would help him.

But no.

His stats said it all:

Stamina – 0

It felt like the system itself was mocking him.

---

By the time he reached the park, Moondae’s body gave out.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed into the damp grass with a gasp, sweat soaking his shirt and hair. His breath came in ragged bursts, and his arms trembled as he pushed himself into a shaky sit-up.

One down. Forty-nine to go.

Then, push-ups.

Every repetition was agony.

Every breath felt stolen.

But somehow—somehow— he made it.

Just as his arms gave out and he rolled onto his back, the hologram blinked back to life above him, soft and shimmering against the night sky.

[Congratulations!]

Daily Mission Complete!

Please accept your reward.

Moondae stared at the glowing text, eyes blurry, heart pounding.

His thoughts were a slow, aching slosh inside his head.

Maybe… just five minutes of rest.

No security guard would mistake him for a homeless person, right?

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

Just a few minutes…

And then he blacked out.

He never saw the person running toward him—

A shadow darting across the grass, kneeling quickly at his side, checking his pulse with urgent fingers.

“Hey—hey! Wake up!”

No response.

The stranger didn’t hesitate.

With practiced ease, they lifted Moondae onto their back, adjusting his limp form before sprinting toward the nearest 24-hour clinic.

Unconscious and soaked in sweat, Moondae remained unaware as his body was carried through the night, the glowing status window still floating above him, flickering softly like a dying star.

For the second time since arriving in this world, Moondae woke up in an unfamiliar place.

But this time, he didn’t jolt awake in panic. Instead, a soft, sterile scent—tinged with antiseptic and faint bitterness—drifted through the air and immediately gave him a clue.

"...A clinic?"

His voice was hoarse as he whispered the word. The ceiling above him was plain white, the lighting soft, the kind used in places designed for rest and recovery. He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the small, quiet room.

So someone found him unconscious in the park and brought him here?

Honestly, that was a little embarrassing. Fainting from overexertion was one thing—fainting from running fifteen thousand steps on an empty stomach was something else entirely. Still... whoever had helped him deserved his gratitude.

Who would've thought? In a country known for its fast-paced, self-centered lifestyle, there was still room for kindness—even if accidental.

His gaze dropped to his right arm, where a transparent IV line was attached. The discomfort was minimal, but it reminded him not to move too much.

“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath.

He closed his eyes briefly and summoned the status window with a single thought, careful not to speak aloud. No need to sound like a lunatic in a clinic.

The familiar hologram materialized in front of his vision, glowing softly:

[Daily Mission Complete!]

Claim your reward.

 

[1] Full Recovery

[2] Random Reward

 

Without hesitation, Moondae selected the first option.

A warm pulse swept through his body like a rush of fresh air. The heaviness in his limbs vanished. The fog in his mind cleared instantly. No more dizziness, no more nausea. Just clarity, and an odd lightness—as if he'd never run at all.

“…Ah. I’m hungry.”

The recovery might have fixed his body, but it hadn’t filled his stomach. The hunger that had been pushed aside now returned with full force.

Right then, the door to the room slid open with a quiet hiss.

A tall figure stepped in—very tall, actually—his silhouette framed against the hallway light. Tousled black hair, casual posture, and in his hands, a tray with food and a drink.

"Oh! You're awake."

The stranger grinned widely. For someone with such an intimidating height, the smile somehow made him look disarmingly approachable. Almost... sunny.

Moondae blinked. “Were you the one who brought me here?”

Without answering right away, the man crossed the room and sat in the chair beside the bed. He set the tray down on the small table, nudging it gently toward Moondae.

“Well, I was out for a night run and saw you sprinting like a man being chased by a monster. I almost turned back to check if something was behind you.” He chuckled. “Turns out there wasn’t. And then you collapsed.”

Air is air. Earth is earth, Moondae recited silently in his head, the mantra he used to stop himself from reacting emotionally. Don’t punch him. Don’t punch the tall guy.

“…Thank you,” he said instead, dryly. “I was working out without eating anything since morning.”

The food’s smell hit him all at once. He didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the tray and began eating quickly. His pride could wait. His stomach couldn’t.

“Don’t do that again,” the man said, watching him. “You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. Thanks for the reminder,” Moondae replied between bites.

A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the soft hum of the clinic and the quiet sound of Moondae devouring the best warm meal he'd had since arriving in this strange world.

“I also mentioned this about you, as a Guide,” the tall young man said, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Have you joined an agency yet? If not… please be careful. Your power is leaking. And there are people out there who would take advantage of that.”

Moondae froze.

His eyes met the man’s—sharp and calm, but clearly observant. For the first time since he woke up, Moondae sensed something different in him. Not just friendliness. Not just concern. There was depth, and knowledge.

“My power… is leaking out?”

The man nodded slowly. He leaned back in his chair, as if trying to make the atmosphere more casual again.

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently. “But you should know. It’s not uncommon. Guides who haven't learned to manage their aura—especially newly awakened ones—tend to leak energy. If the wrong Esper senses it… they might try to manipulate you.”

Moondae’s fingers curled slightly on top of the blanket. His mind reeled, recalling a few articles he'd read earlier in the library. Cases of energy manipulation. Rookie Guides targeted. Bonds forced without consent. It wasn’t just theory. It happened. Often.

“You’re an Esper?” Moondae asked, his voice quiet.

“Yes,” the man said simply. “And I can sense your energy clearly. You’re emitting it almost constantly. I figured maybe you’re new to this? Or you just haven’t had proper training yet?” He offered a soft smile. “Please don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not trying to insult you.”

Moondae stayed quiet for a moment, eyes lowered. He wasn’t sure how much of the truth he should share. Not yet.

“…I haven’t learned to control it. And I have my reasons for not joining an agency.”

“I see.” The man nodded in understanding. “Choosing the right agency is tough. The contracts are binding, and once you're in, it's hard to switch. So yeah… take your time, but just be careful until then.”

He stood up, stretching his arms before dusting off his jeans casually. Then, as if the serious moment had passed, he smiled again.

“I’m Lee Sejin,” he said with a friendly nod.

“…Park Moondae.”

“How old are you, Moondae-ssi?”

“Twenty.”

“Ah! Same here,” he said, sounding genuinely delighted.

Without warning, he reached over and ruffled Moondae’s hair like they were old friends. Moondae flinched, scowling at the bold action.

“I already paid the clinic bill, by the way. So don’t worry about it.”

Moondae frowned. “How much was it? I’ve already troubled you just by ending up here. The least I can do is not owe you money.”

“You don’t need to pay me back with money,” Sejin replied with a light laugh. “Maybe someday I’ll be the one needing your help. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

With one last ruffle of Moondae’s hair—eliciting another quiet protest—he stepped toward the door.

“Take care of yourself, Moondae-ssi. And seriously—keep your energy in check.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Moondae alone in the quiet room. He stared at the spot where the stranger—Sejin—had stood, wondering just how much the man had really seen.

Chapter Text

The following day, Moondae returned to the public library—still the only source of reliable information he had in this unfamiliar world. Unlike yesterday, where he had skimmed through the general roles of Guides and Espers and their significance in each nation, today his focus narrowed. He wanted to learn more specifically about Guides—and how to control himself.

He scanned the shelves quietly until his eyes landed on a worn-out title:

“How to Hide Your Aura: A Beginner’s Manual for Guides.”

Perfect.

Choosing a secluded corner far from curious eyes, Moondae sat down and opened the book, hoping to avoid attracting attention—especially from Espers who might sense him. He took out a pen and notebook, jotting down every important point as he read. The first method was surprisingly straightforward:

 — "Relax your body as if entering a meditative state. Focus on your heartbeat. Become aware of your limbs, your fingertips, your toes—every subtle movement. Once fully attuned to your body, you will begin to sense a separate flow—neither blood nor breath, but something lighter. Like wind. That is your Guide energy. Once felt, visualize stopping it with your mind."

Moondae raised an eyebrow. "Stopping it with my mind? That’s… vague."

But he had nothing to lose.

He sat upright, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Slowly, he quieted his thoughts. It was harder than he remembered—being still, focusing inward. His shoulders twitched, his fingers itched to move, but he fought to remain grounded.

Heartbeat.

Fingertips.

Toes.

The curve of his back resting against the wooden chair.

Then, just as the book described, he felt it. A gentle breeze brushing along the inside of his skin. Light. Subtle. Almost like an echo moving through him.

That’s it.

His heart skipped. This was his leaking energy—the thing that had made him vulnerable to strangers, like that tall man yesterday. According to the book, this was the moment to act.

Visualize. Stop it with your mind.

Moondae imagined a thick wall—stone, perhaps, or steel—rising around the center of his chest, encasing his body in quiet stillness. A barrier that no aura could pass through. A sealed dome.

He held that image as long as he could.

Suddenly, a soft ding echoed in his ears, and a holographic notification appeared in front of him.

—  Congratulations on your first experiment as a Guide!

You’ve successfully blocked your aura from leaking out.

Please open your random reward!

 

“…What?”

Still half in disbelief, he tapped the notification.

In the next moment, a small bundle appeared in his hand—a wrapped bar of chocolate.

Moondae stared at it blankly.

“A reward system that gives chocolate? Seriously?”

But he smiled faintly. As ridiculous as it was, at least it confirmed something: he had done it. He’d managed to suppress his aura. He wasn’t helpless anymore.

With a quiet exhale, he unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite. Then, setting it beside his notebook, he turned back to the guidebook.

He still had a lot to learn.

A few days ago, the idea of studying again had made him sick. After failing the civil exam, he swore he’d never touch a textbook again.

But now?

Here he was—learning from scratch all over again.

And for the first time in a while, he didn’t mind

Moondae gently closed the thick paperback he had been reading, pressing a hand over his tired eyes before sliding the book back into his bag. His mind was full—pages of information about aura control, beginner’s techniques, and the nuances of being a guide swirled in his thoughts. But for now, he needed to pause. His stomach grumbled, and his daily mission was still pending.

He left the quiet sanctuary of the public library and stepped into the bright midday sun. The streets bustled with city life, but he walked with calm determination, heading toward a nearby ramyeon shop. The scent of broth and spice greeted him as he stepped inside, bringing a subtle comfort to his frayed nerves.

He chose the simplest bowl on the menu—a plain anchovy broth with a soft-boiled egg. No extra toppings. Moondae wasn’t poor, not exactly, but the unfamiliarity of this world—and the system he’d somehow been pulled into—meant he had to be careful. No telling what might suddenly cost points or credits.

Silently, he ate. The broth warmed his insides, and with every slurp of noodles, his heart rate seemed to slow. After he finished, he sat for a moment, exhaling deeply.

Then he stood. Time for the daily mission.

Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden light across the sidewalks. Moondae began jogging at a steady pace, careful not to push himself too hard like yesterday. Every few blocks, he paused to drink from the bottle of water tucked under his arm, mindful of his energy levels.

Sweat clung to his back by the time he approached the local minimart. He downed the last of his third water bottle, panting as he opened the system menu with a flick of his hand.

A familiar hologram bloomed in the air.

[Daily Mission Complete]

Reward: Full Recovery

[Claim?]

“Claim,” he muttered.

The effect was immediate. A cool rush flooded his limbs, washing away the heaviness in his muscles and the fog in his head. He stood straighter, lips parting slightly in awe.

“...That’s better.”

His eyes drifted to the next tab.

 [User Information]

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: Guide

 

Level: 1

Physical Strength: 0

Mental Strength: 1

Agility: 0

Stamina: 0

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: None

Side Quest: None

Accumulated Points: 2

He frowned thoughtfully. Two points. And four categories with zero.

If he were an esper, this would be easy. Physical strength or stamina—muscle and endurance—would be vital. But he was a guide. And the book had said guides needed mental resilience more than anything.

Still, passing out mid-run wasn’t ideal either.

"One to Mental, one to Stamina," he whispered after a moment of internal debate.

With a blink, the screen shifted.

 [User Information]

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: Guide

 

Level: 2

Physical Strength: 0

Mental Strength: 2

Agility: 0

Stamina: 1

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: None

Side Quest: None

He stared at it. A small improvement, but improvement nonetheless. For someone who had once poured everything into passing a civil service exam, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.

Maybe, just maybe, this strange world was giving him a second chance.

Still debating whether he should head back to his cheap motel or drop by an internet café to search for agency-related information, Moondae found his thoughts interrupted by the sudden flicker of a familiar light.

The system screen had returned, floating calmly in the air before his eyes.

[New Side Quest]

Your aura-blocking skill is still unstable. Calibrate it by passing through three locations with high esper presence without being detected!

 

[Reward] Sensory Dampening Charm (1-time use)

“…What?” Moondae frowned, narrowing his eyes.

Wasn’t this just... a stealth mission?

For a second, he wondered if he had been dropped into a fully interactive RPG without anyone telling him. But then his gaze drifted back to the reward. A charm that could suppress his sensory signature. Even if it was just single-use, that kind of item could save his life—or help him cheat his way out of a difficult situation.

Not to mention, there was a high chance he'd earn more accumulated points.

He exhaled.

Yesterday, he’d already made up his mind: he wouldn’t join an agency until his level was high enough. That way, he’d enter the system as a high-ranking guide, skipping the entry-level treatment and instantly catching attention wherever he applied.

If doing side quests helped with that plan... then there was no reason to hesitate.

Still, Moondae needed information—specifically, on where espers would be gathering. Gate locations. That would be the most efficient way to find places crawling with high-level esper presence.

He turned toward the nearest alley, already mentally mapping out internet café locations, when a flash of motion on a public screen caught his eye.

On the sidewalk, a large communal TV embedded into the side of a building displayed a live news broadcast. A crowd had gathered to watch.

The footage showed split screens of different areas around Seoul, each marked by intense activity. In one, emergency barriers had been erected around what looked like a dried-out park. The ground was black and cracked, and trees stood like scorched skeletons under a colorless sky.

 “—confirmed signs of a gate appearance, though the portal has yet to fully open. The area is currently being evacuated.”

Another screen showed live combat. Espers, brightly colored auras flaring around them, moved in formation, battling grotesque creatures spilling out of a shimmering gate that hovered in midair like a torn wound in reality. Nearby, guides in field uniforms supported the front lines with rapid-fire instructions and formation control.

In another quadrant of the screen, civilians were recording from rooftops, murmuring excitedly in the background as monsters shrieked below.

Moondae stepped closer.

Each gate had a rank displayed beside it, determined by the severity of environmental collapse—"death zones," as they were called. The more intense the decay, the higher the danger.

He squinted, scanning past the C-rank and B-rank gates.

Then he saw it.

 “—this S-rank gate has been assigned the highest priority response. Civilian entry is prohibited within a five-kilometer radius. Esper teams from three agencies are already en route.”

Perfect.

Without a second thought, he turned and bolted down the street, weaving past pedestrians. His breath hitched, but his steps didn’t falter.

If he wanted to complete this stealth mission, an S-rank gate would be ideal. The more powerful the espers, the more effective the calibration would be. Of course, it also meant a higher chance of being discovered—and killed. But that was a risk he’d have to take.

He sprinted toward the nearest bus stop, eyes glinting with quiet determination.

This wasn’t just a game.

This was survival—and every point counted.

By the time Moondae arrived, the area was already a battlefield.

Chaos had bloomed in every corner of the street—raw and untamed. Crowds of civilians were scattering in panic, some screaming, others frozen in shock. A few stood still, their phones held high, recording the spectacle as if they were watching a blockbuster action film instead of a life-or-death clash.

The sky above the district had dimmed unnaturally. Cracks in the air shimmered with violet light—the visible scars of the gate that had torn open. Energy pulsed in waves, vibrating through the ground beneath Moondae’s feet.

He stopped in his tracks.

It was the first time he had ever seen espers in real combat. And nothing could have prepared him for it.

From his vantage point—a sloping path slightly elevated from the main avenue—he could see the entire confrontation unfold beyond the security barricades. Uniformed guards stood firm behind temporary blockades, keeping onlookers away from the frontline.

Beyond them, chaos reigned.

Espers blazed with color. Their auras rippled like living fire, wrapping their bodies in hues unique to each of them—blue, crimson, silver, green. Some fought hand-to-hand, sending shockwaves with every strike. Others summoned weapons formed from pure energy. Every movement was brutal, elegant, deadly.

The monsters... were nightmares made flesh.

Twisted limbs, jagged teeth, bodies that defied symmetry or logic. Some crawled, some flew, others leapt over buildings with spine-shaking force. Each one emitted a shrill scream that curdled the blood.

And in the midst of it all, guides stood behind the frontlines, their voices clear and commanding through the comms. They shouted directions, identified enemy weak points, and synchronized esper movements like conductors of a deadly orchestra.

Moondae didn’t even realize he had been holding his breath.

So this... is the world I’ve stepped into.

It was terrifying.

And thrilling.

He remained several meters back, just far enough from the barricades to avoid suspicion, but close enough to witness the battle in detail. His mind raced.

The espers were too busy fighting. None of them were paying attention to their surroundings. He could walk past them, even shout his name, and they probably wouldn’t notice unless he interfered directly.

That wasn’t ideal.

The system likely wouldn’t count this kind of proximity. There had to be tension—risk—actual detection. Right now, Moondae was no different from any other spectator.

Maybe... maybe he had arrived too early.

If he waited until the battle was over, the esper teams would begin sweeping the area, securing the perimeter, cleaning up the aftermath. That was his chance. At close range, if he moved carefully, the quest system might finally acknowledge the calibration.

He crossed his arms and exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the battleground.

“I guess I’ll wait,” he muttered, voice almost lost in the wind.

Above him, the sky cracked again, and another creature fell from the rift.

He didn’t flinch.

He just took a quiet step back into the shadows, and waited.

He felt it before he saw it.

Just as Moondae had taken a cautious step back, the ground beneath him trembled—subtly at first, then with a jolt that nearly knocked him off balance. Screams tore through the air, sharp and uncoordinated. Uniformed security personnel suddenly turned on their heels and bolted, their commands swallowed by the rising panic.

And then it appeared.

The monster burst through the edge of the secured zone, crashing past a row of barriers as if they were paper. It was massive—its form slithering like a serpent, but its body was littered with dozens, maybe hundreds, of needle-like legs that twitched and clicked against the pavement. Its head split into jagged mandibles, and from deep inside, it let out a screech that pierced the air like shattered glass.

Moondae instinctively covered his ears, wincing as the sound drilled into his skull.

What the hell?

He stared, wide-eyed. That thing shouldn’t be here. This part of the area had been deemed safe—no signs of decay, no aura corruption, no recorded deaths. It was the designated civilian viewing zone. A calculated distance from the battlefield.

So how?

How had the monster gotten so close?

Before he could think further, someone rammed into his shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

The shock jolted him back into reality.

I need to run.

And so, he did.

He spun around and dashed into the chaos. Civilians surged in every direction, trampling over barriers and one another in their desperation to flee. Moondae pushed through, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering.

But only seconds later—something grabbed him.

A violent tug at his ankle halted him mid-stride. He stumbled, looking down in horror.

Roots.

No—branches. Gnarled, twisted, and very much alive. They had emerged from the cracked concrete like a trap, coiling tightly around his leg. He barely had time to register it before they pulled.

Hard.

“Shit!”

He crashed onto the ground, arms scraping against the pavement as the roots dragged him backward. He twisted his body, trying to kick free, but the grip only tightened. Dust and debris clouded his vision as his body was yanked past broken barriers and through the chaos.

His ears rang with more screams—others were caught too.

But he couldn’t look. He couldn’t afford to. His mind was focused on one thing now:

Protect your head.

The moment the roots dragged him over a slope, his arms instinctively curled around his skull. He couldn’t stop the fall, but maybe—just maybe—he could avoid a concussion.

He slammed into something hard, then another pull, this time downward. His shoulder hit concrete. A sharp sting exploded across his back. His body was limp, his breath knocked out of him, but the roots weren’t done yet. They continued to drag him, deeper into the battlefield—into the monster’s zone.

The last thing he saw before his vision blurred was the silhouette of the multi-legged serpent, its grotesque face turning in his direction.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

He felt everything.

The sharp jolt of his body hitting the ground. The grinding pull of the roots dragging him closer to the monstrous creature. And beneath it all—the hum of his own power, tightly coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.

This was dangerous. Unpredictable.

But it was also his chance.

One of the three side quests. If he complete it now...

Moondae clenched his jaw. His limbs ached, his back throbbed, and every instinct screamed at him to survive. But he shoved it all aside. Survival was important, yes—but so was control. If his power leaked here, without a proper license, without training—he might draw attention he couldn’t afford.

So he focused.

He concentrated all his will on reinforcing his internal shield, suppressing the energy that rippled just beneath his skin. Bit by bit, it folded inward, like a fire retreating into coals.

Then he felt it—a new presence.

An Esper was approaching.

Fast. Strong. A massive surge of energy wrapped in... fear?

Moondae kept his eyes closed, still anchoring his power. He didn’t know who it was, but something about the emotional signature was off. This Esper was powerful, but they were shaken. Conflicted.

Why? Why would someone that strong be afraid?

A sudden snap. The roots loosened.

And then—a firm hand slipped around his waist, pulling him free.

A rush of air hit his face as they leapt, high and fast, through the air. The momentum made his stomach drop. His eyes cracked open just as they landed—on the roof of a nearby house, far from the chaos.

That was when he saw him.

The Esper.

Young—probably around his age. Strikingly handsome, almost unreal. His right hand gripped a long, elegant sword that shimmered faintly with psychic energy. His sharp gaze was locked onto the battlefield below, the monster still raging through the panic-stricken crowd.

Moondae swallowed. His theory had been right. They had jumped impossibly far.

But what caught his attention next wasn’t the view—it was the Esper’s hand, still gripping his waist.

It was trembling.

Just slightly.

...He's scared.

Moondae stared, caught off guard by the contradiction. That level of energy didn’t match someone on the edge of panic. And yet, here it was—clear as day. The Esper was powerful, but struggling.

In the guide training manual—what little of it Moondae had managed to skim—there had been a line: —  “A Guide can sense an Esper’s emotional state, especially when that Esper lacks control.”

And now, he was sure.

The emotion pressing against his mind—was fear.

Before he could react, a faint blue light shimmered near the Esper’s face. A translucent hologram, visible only to Moondae, blinked into existence.

Name: Seon Ahyeon

Age: 20

Title: S-Rank Esper

 

Physical Strength: 70 (90)

Mental Strength: 10 (70)

Agility: 80 (100)

Stamina: 80 (100)

 

Abnormal Status: Lack of Self-Esteem

When this status is active, the user's abilities are reduced due to confidence loss.

 

Moondae’s eyes widened.

“...What?” he murmured without thinking.

The Esper—Seon Ahyeon—startled, whipping his head toward him. “O-oh! You’re conscious? Thank God!”

Moondae blinked. That voice… didn’t match the stats either.

“I’m fine,” he said, unsure how else to respond. “Thanks.”

“No, no, I should’ve gotten to you f-faster. You’re bleeding a lot!” Ahyeon’s expression twisted with guilt. “I n-need to get you t-to medics—”

“That’s not necessary,” Moondae interrupted gently. “Just… go. Handle the monster. You can leave me here.”

He pushed the trembling hand from his waist, stumbling slightly as he stood. His body protested, pain flaring in multiple places, but he kept his composure.

The important thing was that the system didn’t alert him of exposure. As far as anyone knew—Seon Ahyeon included—he was still just a civilian.

“But you—”

“I’ll be fine. They need you more.”

He nodded toward the struggling squad of Espers and Guides still locked in battle with the creature. Ahyeon followed his gaze, then looked back at Moondae—his expression shifting. It became more focused. Sharper.

“W-what’s your name?”

Moondae hesitated. “Uh… Park Moondae.”

“M-moondae-ssi,” Ahyeon said, his voice firmer. “I’ll let someone know to come help you. So, so please—hang in there.”

Before Moondae could reply, Ahyeon took out a handkerchief, gently guiding Moondae’s hand to wipe the blood trailing down his face. There was something oddly delicate in the gesture—surprisingly soft for someone who could leap entire rooftops.

Then, without another word, Ahyeon launched himself back into the fight, his blade gleaming in the afternoon light.

Moondae stood frozen for a moment, hand still holding the handkerchief.

It smelled faintly of mint.

He slowly wiped the blood from his temple, then checked the rest of his body. Scrapes, bruises, a deep cut along his arm—but he could move. He was still functional.

He exhaled, shakily.

He wasn’t expecting this.

He looked down at the battlefield again.

Only a few days in this world.

And already, he’d bled.

He's not even an official Guide yet. And this... this is just the beginning.

The aftermath of the incident still lingered in his bones.

Though his head had been bleeding profusely the night before, Park Moondae was lucky. The medical team arrived swiftly, administering first aid just in time. The diagnosis? No concussion. Just a superficial gash on his temple and a sprained ankle. It wasn’t ideal, but it could’ve been far worse.

He refused to stay at the hospital.

Before anyone could push him into further treatment—or worse, assign him a guide for support—he slipped out under the radar and made his way back to the modest motel room he was currently calling home.

The next morning came too fast.

With an ankle still throbbing and his body stiff from bruises, Moondae forced himself through the daily mission requirements. It was grueling, painful even, especially since most of the tasks involved physical exertion. But with each squat, push-up, and forced jog around the nearby block, he kept one goal in mind: the reward.

And finally, after what felt like an eternity of self-inflicted torment, the familiar ding of system notification echoed in his mind.

[Daily Mission Complete – Reward Granted: Full Physical Recovery]

His breath hitched. The pain vanished. Like magic, because it was magic. Or something close to it.

He sat in the tiny motel dining space with a warm meal in front of him—rice, soup, and a couple of side dishes. His body now refreshed, his mind turned toward strategy. Only one side quest remained. Two had been completed without a hitch, and all without anyone noticing he was a guide.

The first had been cleared during the battle. The second, during the post-mission media frenzy.

Moondae had stood among a crowd of reporters outside the gate zone earlier that day, pretending to adjust a cheap-looking camera strapped across his chest. He was just another journalist chasing a soundbite from the victorious elite espers. His expression stayed blank, focused, calm.

The mission: Stand near an esper of rank A or higher during post-battle cooldown.

Complete.

No one even glanced his way.

Now, it was time for the final task.

According to the guide database, when they weren’t on missions, many high-ranking espers frequented a particular upscale café in Seoul. It was infamous for being overpriced and overtly stylish, but it had something no other place did: power concentration. High-level espers liked it there. Maybe because of the privacy. Maybe because the pastries were laced with mana-rich sugar. Who knew?

Moondae arrived just before sunset. The café was bathed in golden light, its wide windows showing reflections of the city's skyline. He walked in quietly, blending in with the after-work crowd, and reluctantly ordered the cheapest drink on the menu—a lavender latte that still cost more than his motel room for the night.

For the quest, he reminded himself.

He scanned the room as he waited for his order, using his status window discreetly. There—toward the back—sat a young man with a glowing name and title hovering just for him to see.

[Esper Rank: A | Name: Joo Hyunseo]

Target locked.

Moondae approached the seat behind Hyunseo’s table, setting down his overpriced drink with feigned confidence. His posture was relaxed, his expression neutral. To the outside world, he was just another exhausted office worker looking for caffeine and a quiet place to scroll on his phone.

He sat there, quietly.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Then—

[Side Quest 3/3 Complete: Rewards have been granted]

The hologram flickered briefly before vanishing. He blinked once.

Moondae was up before the latte cooled, grabbing his drink and heading straight for the exit. He didn’t even take a sip. The café's atmosphere suddenly felt oppressive, like it was feeding off his hard-earned money.

Once outside, he exhaled deeply, the wind brushing softly through his dark hair.

Three of the side quests done. All while maintaining the illusion.

Not a single soul suspected he was a guide.

That, more than any system reward, felt like the greatest success.

He finally made it back to his motel room, still clutching the system notification that hovered quietly beside him like a loyal ghost. Side quest: completed. Rewards: received. His health bar: full.

On paper, everything looked great.

Park Moondae collapsed onto the edge of the bed, letting the stiffness in his muscles slowly melt into the cheap mattress. The white noise of the city filtered in through the cracked window, blending with the occasional car honk and distant hum of neon lights.

His fingers brushed the corner of the holographic screen still open beside him, displaying the clean checkmark of a mission well done. But Moondae didn’t smile.

Instead, he whispered, almost like a joke to himself, “Two café visits, three near-death experiences, and one overpriced fruit tea later… I guess that’s what they call ‘immersion’.”

He let out a soft sigh, more tired than relieved.

He hadn’t come here to play hero.

He hadn’t even come here to survive gloriously.

He came here because he had no choice. And now that he was here… he needed to stay alive. Quietly. Efficiently. Unnoticed.

That’s why his shield couldn’t fail. That’s why no one could know he was a guide. That’s why he had to keep winning—but never stand out.

Moondae stared at the dim light flickering on the ceiling. For a split second, his mind drifted back to his old world. The one with a computer screen, stacks of webnovels, and instant noodles. There, he was nobody. And honestly… he was fine with that.

Here, being nobody took ten times more effort.

The thought made him laugh—tired, bitter, quiet.

He turned off the system screen and laid back fully. His voice, barely audible, escaped into the dark room.

“…I just hope the next quest doesn’t ask me to make friends.”

Because if it did, Park Moondae wasn’t sure he’d know how.

Eventually, he lay down, expecting his body to sink into exhaustion. He had completed three parts of his side quest, earned a full recovery, even eaten a decent meal today.

He should be asleep already.

But the moment he closed his eyes—

That thing came back.

The monstrous roar. The sharp tug on his leg as the roots wrapped tighter, pulling him across dirt and stone. The sensation of being dragged, helpless, toward a gaping jaw and eyes that didn’t blink.

The sheer certainty that he was about to die.

He opened his eyes again. The ceiling was still there, cracked and yellow with age.

Still. Silent. Empty.

He tried to sleep again.

The same thing happened.

Again.

And again.

Each time, he saw blood on his hands, smelled the rot of that creature’s breath, felt the weightlessness of his body being thrown.

And each time, he reminded himself—he survived.

That should’ve meant something. Right?

"...Pathetic," he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “I even have a trauma cutscene now. Great.”

His voice sounded too loud in the stillness, so he whispered the next line under his breath.

“Am I supposed to be the side character or the horror movie protagonist?”

He rolled onto his side, arm tucked beneath his head. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, though he didn’t remember pulling it over himself. It was a poor imitation of comfort.

Time ticked by. He didn’t know how long. The holographic notification had disappeared already. The world had gone back to pretending it was fine.

And maybe he could too, tomorrow.

But tonight, in this too-quiet motel room, Park Moondae couldn’t stop hearing his own heartbeat. Couldn’t stop seeing that monster. Couldn’t stop remembering how close it had been.

He let out a soft laugh, sharp and hollow.

“Guess I’ve officially unlocked PTSD. Neat.”

He closed his eyes one last time—not because he thought he’d sleep, but because he was too tired to keep pretending.

Just as his breathing finally started to steady—

Ding.

The sound pierced through the still air like a drop of ink in water. Sharp. Immediate.

A holographic screen blinked into existence above his head, casting a faint glow across the dim motel room.

 [Hidden System Notification]

Mental Fortitude Stat has increased by +1.

Congratulations. You have endured repeated exposure to near-death trauma without collapsing.

Keep going.

Moondae blinked.

Then stared.

Then laughed.

A real laugh this time, hoarse and disbelieving.

"Seriously?"

He rubbed his face with both hands, half-covering his eyes. The notification remained suspended in the air, smugly unbothered by human nuance.

“Of course,” he muttered, letting his arms fall back to his sides. “Of course this stupid system rewards mental breakdowns.”

A pause. Then another bitter chuckle.

“What’s next? Bonus points for insomnia?”

The notification flickered once, then vanished without a trace.

And just like that, the room returned to silence.

Park Moondae lay there for a long time, eyes open in the dark, one arm draped over his chest as if to hold himself together. He wasn’t sure if he was tired or wide awake anymore. All he knew was that the monster was still waiting every time he closed his eyes—and that now, the system knew it too.

But tomorrow, there would be another quest.

So tonight, he would lie still.

And breathe.

Chapter Text

The alarm rang at exactly six in the morning.

Park Moondae opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the early light bleeding through the cheap curtain. For a moment, he lay still, unsure whether to surrender to sleep again or force himself into motion. His body ached with the kind of fatigue that no longer came from wounds, but from exhaustion rooted somewhere deeper—exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure.

Eventually, he rolled off the thin mattress, his back cracking as he stood up.

The bathroom mirror was still fogged from last night. Moondae didn’t bother wiping it. He turned the tap on, letting the cold water shock him awake. He didn’t need to see his own face to know what it looked like. The bandage on his temple was due for a change; the ache beneath it had dulled, but the skin still felt tender. Beneath his shirt, other bruises painted his torso, fading from violet to yellow, like old, tired flowers.

Dark circles pooled under his eyes again. He hadn’t really slept—not since the last incident. The nightmares had been vivid. Roots crawling around his ankles. A monster’s breath on his neck. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of almost dying returned like a tide. He had gotten used to waking up sweating, breath caught in his throat, half-expecting the bed to open beneath him.

But not today. Today, he had errands to run.

After changing the bandages and drying his hair, he stood in front of the small kitchenette, eating a simple breakfast of toast and eggs. He had been eating more lately—his face no longer looked so hollow, and the new haircut he had forced himself to get gave him a slightly cleaner look. Not better, just... less miserable.

Once he finished his breakfast, he checked the system notification and accepted the daily mission. Jogging. Again.

His legs protested with every step. He wasn’t fully healed yet, but the full recovery reward from the previous mission had worked wonders. He only needed to act like he wasn’t limping. As he jogged through the quiet backstreets of the city, his thoughts drifted from the system to money. He had enough to survive another month, maybe four if he rationed carefully. But he knew he need more before he joined agency. The posibility of another side quest is high. 

As if in answer his thoughts, his gaze caught a newly opened café on the corner of a quiet intersection.

A handwritten sign taped to the glass door read:

“WE’RE HIRING – PART-TIMERS NEEDED (URGENT!)”

Moondae slowed down, steps faltering.

He stared at the sign for a few seconds, heart rate steady despite the jog. Then, without hesitation, he continued running—this time with a new goal in mind. He would finish the mission first, claim the reward, then double back and apply for the job. There was no time to waste. Every bit of money he saved now brought him one step closer to the agency. One step closer to surviving this world long-term.

He didn’t let himself hope for much, but a job meant stability. A routine. Something normal, even if temporary.

As he ran under the morning sun, sweat dripping down his brow and the ache in his limbs slowly warming into endurance, Park Moondae allowed himself to think:

Maybe today will be okay.

After completing his daily mission and receiving the full recovery reward, Park Moondae returned to his motel with renewed energy—not from the system boost, but from something less tangible. A tiny flicker of purpose. He changed into a clean hoodie and jeans, brushed his damp hair neatly to one side, and took one final look at his reflection—not to admire, but to confirm that he looked employable.

Then, he left for the café.

The small building stood between a closed bookstore and a convenience store that hadn’t changed its fluorescent sign in years. The café’s logo was simple—a sketch of a steaming cup and the word “Cloud Nine” written in looping, imperfect cursive. A chime rang as he pushed open the glass door.

Inside, it smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee beans. The air was warmer than outside, filled with the soft hum of jazz music playing in the background. The interior wasn’t crowded—just a couple of students tapping away on laptops, and an elderly man sipping coffee by the window. The counter was run by a young woman who looked barely older than him, busy wiping the machine with practiced movements.

“Welcome,” she greeted, smiling automatically before glancing up and meeting his eyes.

“Hi,” Moondae said, voice even. “I saw the sign outside. Are you still hiring?”

She blinked, then seemed to actually see him. Maybe it was the quiet confidence he carried despite the tiredness in his face. Maybe it was just the way he didn’t hesitate to speak.

“We are,” she said, setting down the cloth. “Are you looking for part-time?”

“Yes.”

She looked him up and down—not rudely, just the way someone evaluating a potential co-worker would.

“Have you worked in a café before?”

“No,” he replied honestly. “But I learn fast. And I’m flexible with hours.”

There was a brief pause. She tilted her head, then reached for something under the counter—a clipboard with a form attached.

“You’re lucky. We need someone urgently, even if you’re just helping with dishwashing and cleaning tables for now.” She handed him the form and a pen. “Fill this out. If all goes well, you can start tomorrow.”

Moondae took it with a small bow of gratitude. “Thank you.”

As he filled out the form by the corner table, he noticed how quiet the space felt compared to the world outside. No monsters, no missions, no screaming status windows or pulsing red alerts. Just the sound of coffee being poured and pages turning.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed something this simple.

When he handed the form back, the woman gave it a quick look, then smiled slightly. “Moondae, right? I’m Jin-ah. Let’s try a test run tomorrow morning.”

He nodded. “I’ll be here.”

As he stepped back out into the street, the cold air brushed his cheeks, but it didn’t feel as harsh as before. His body still hurt, his sleep was still broken, and the nightmares still lingered.

But he had a job now. A place to be. A small sense of stability in a world that kept pulling him toward chaos.

Later that evening, Park Moondae stepped into the faint hum of the internet café. The walls were lined with screens casting pale blue light, and the scent of fried snacks clung faintly to the air. He chose a quiet booth in the corner and sat down.

He stared at the login screen for a while, then typed his first search query.

“Ryu Gunwoo.”

It was strange—typing his own name.

Not the one he used now.

Not Park Moondae.

Ryu Gunwoo.

That was him.

Or, at least, it used to be.

When the search results came up empty, he didn’t flinch. He’d already suspected this might happen. The moment he realized the system had dropped him into someone else’s body in this strange version of reality, he'd accepted the possibility that his past—the real one—might be lost entirely.

Still, the silence in the search bar sent a faint echo through his chest. A dull, hollow one.

He moved on. Logged into the university portal he remembered checking almost every morning.

The page loaded, asking for credentials.

He typed them in.

Access granted.

But the inside was blank.

No personal data. No enrollment records. No class history. It was like logging into an empty shell—familiar layout, familiar navigation, but no trace of him.

He tried the alumni portal, then navigated to his graduation class. Scrolled down, hunting for the department photo.

His fingers stilled.

Everyone else was there.

He wasn’t.

"I knew it," he murmured, almost laughing at how unsurprised he felt. "Still stings, though."

He never liked taking pictures of himself, that much was true. But graduation had been different. He remembered standing near the edge of the group, awkward and expressionless while everyone else smiled. That moment had existed.

Hadn't it?

Now, it was gone. Maybe it had never happened at all.

He searched his old social media next—an account he hadn’t touched in years. Another dead end. Username not found. No records. No digital footprint.

With each search, the pattern grew clearer. In this world, Ryu Gunwoo didn’t exist. And if he did… no one remembered.

Still, there was one last angle he had to check.

He turned his attention to the identity he now lived in.

Park Moondae.

He searched through the high school Moondae was said to have dropped out of. Scanned posts, event photos, old forums. He looked for names that might’ve known him. Teachers. Classmates.

Then he stalked their online presence, trying to find any sign that someone remembered Park Moondae.

No one did.

Moondae’s online existence was equally quiet. No comments. No tagged photos. No lingering conversations with old friends.

Not a single person had said anything like, “I wonder what happened to Park Moondae?”

He leaned back in the worn chair, letting his eyes close for a second. His breath caught.

Two people.

Two lives.

And both of them forgotten.

He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the monitor. The irony was sharp enough to taste.

He used to be Ryu Gunwoo, a quiet student who lived unnoticed and died unknown.

Now he was Park Moondae, a boy who vanished before the world even realized he was ever there.

Two names. Two fates.

And somehow… one identical silence.

A broken smile tugged at his lips.

“I guess that’s the one thing we have in common,” he said softly. “Neither of us had anyone.”

There was no one to miss Ryu Gunwoo.

And no one to look for Park Moondae.

It should’ve made things easier. No tangled attachments. No guilt.

But strangely, it just made the air feel heavier.

The next morning, Park Moondae returned to the small café tucked between a bookstore and a convenience store. He had finished his daily mission earlier than usual, leaving him with extra time—and the clear decision to follow through on what he’d planned yesterday.

A soft chime echoed as he pushed the door open. The lights were still dim, and the air smelled faintly of roasted beans and cleaning detergent.

Choi Jin looked up from behind the counter, eyes lighting up.

“Oh, you came back!” she said, her voice carrying both surprise and relief. “That’s great. Come in—let’s get you started.”

Moondae stepped inside, brushing the water off his jacket sleeves.

She led him to the back area where a few boxes were still left unpacked. As they walked, she talked—warmly, but with the directness of someone who had been running everything on her own until now.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she began as she handed him a simple checklist, “this is my first time hiring anyone. I was a little nervous about it... worried I wouldn’t be able to pay you on time or give you enough hours.”

Moondae listened quietly, eyes scanning the list.

Cleaning tasks. Preparing the front counter. Managing orders. Simple enough.

“But the café’s been busy,” she continued. “Busier than I expected. I put up the job posting on impulse, actually. Taped it to the window because I was too tired to think straight.” She chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Lucky for me, huh?”

He nodded once, a polite curve to his lips.

“I’m glad you did,” he replied.

To Park Moondae, or rather, Ryu Gunwoo—part-time work wasn’t new. He had taken on jobs before. Two at a time, sometimes three if rent was coming up and he hadn’t eaten properly in days. Manual labor, deliveries, cashier work, odd gigs here and there. But a café job like this? This was a first.

They were usually snatched up quickly by university students who had better chances, better social networks. He never stood a chance.

That’s why he wasn’t going to waste this one.

He accepted the navy apron and name tag she handed over. The fabric was still stiff with newness.

“You can change in there,” Jin said, gesturing to the restroom. “Take your time.”

Moments later, Moondae stood in front of the small mirror above the sink, adjusting the apron straps. He avoided looking directly at his reflection. The bathroom lights were a little too harsh—too honest.

Still, the uniform fit fine. The sleeves didn’t hang awkwardly, and the apron tied neatly around his waist.

When he emerged, Jin was already rolling up the blinds and flipping the open sign.

“You ready?” she asked with a smile.

Moondae gave her a calm nod.

“Yes.”

And so, the café’s second week of business began—with a new rhythm, and a new pair of hands behind the counter.

— 

Just as Choi Jin had predicted, the moment the café's “OPEN” sign flipped over and the blinds were fully raised, the once-quiet shop transformed into a small hub of movement.

It began slowly—two high school students in uniforms, yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes as they ordered hot chocolate and croissants. Then came a group of young professionals, talking in soft but hurried tones, tapping away on their phones as they waited for their takeout cups. Soon after, a few pairs of esper and guide uniforms began to trickle in, some still adjusting their jackets, others carrying files and notepads as they sank into chairs by the window.

Within half an hour, the café was full.

And Moondae, with his sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms and his apron tied securely around his waist, moved through it all with practiced precision.

He balanced two trays, carrying iced americanos in one hand and a plate of lemon cake in the other. He wiped down tables quickly when customers left, eyes scanning the surface to ensure not even a crumb remained. He refilled water pitchers, offered napkins with a quiet nod, and delivered every order with exact timing—never too fast, never too slow.

There was nothing flashy in the way he moved. But there was a kind of elegance in his efficiency, in the way his actions flowed together without hesitation.

His experience from countless part-time jobs as Ryu Gunwoo—whether stocking shelves, delivering packages, or cleaning buildings—served him well. Though this was his first time working in a café, his body knew how to adapt. His hands moved without fumbling, his eyes tracked every small change in the room, and his ears stayed alert for new orders being called from behind the counter.

But more than that, Moondae stayed careful.

Even though the side quest involving him before had already ended, he remained vigilant about hiding his current identity. The last thing he needed was attention—especially the wrong kind. As far as this world was concerned, he was just Park Moondae, a new part-timer. Not a guide. Not someone marked by the system. Just… a guy with a small face and a quiet attitude.

He kept his voice soft, never speaking more than necessary. He bowed slightly when he delivered drinks or greeted a customer. When someone asked for recommendations, he simply pointed to the chalkboard where Jin had written that day’s specials in cheerful cursive.

Still, he couldn’t avoid all attention.

At one point, a table of middle-aged women waved him over to thank him for how neatly their drinks were prepared. One of them smiled warmly and said, “You’re very polite, young man. It’s rare to see that these days.”

He nodded once and murmured, “Thank you.”

Later, a group of high school girls seated near the window giggled softly whenever he walked past. He didn’t need to hear them clearly to know what they were whispering about. The way they glanced in his direction and quickly looked away—laughing into their sleeves—told him enough.

He felt his ears go warm.

In the middle of wiping down another table, Moondae paused briefly and exhaled through his nose.

What did Jin say again? Something about a ‘cute, soft look’?

He shut his eyes for a moment. Ridiculous.

Embarrassment flickered in his chest. Not because he didn’t understand why people said it—he’d heard similar things before, though never with such open amusement. But because he had never known what to do with that kind of attention. Compliments were slippery things. Hard to grasp, harder to return.

So, as he cleared the table, he decided firmly: he would forget about it.

That way, it wouldn’t matter.

Chapter Text

Park Moondae had just finished arranging the cakes in the display case, carefully adjusting the angle of each slice to make the colors and layers pop beneath the soft lighting. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron, when the café door chimed open.

"Welcome to Cloud Nine Café. How can I—"

His practiced greeting faltered the moment he looked up.

Standing at the entrance, bathed in the glow of late morning light, was a familiar figure. Seon Ahyeon. With his platinum blond hair and tall frame, he looked more like a model posing for a photo shoot than someone casually walking into a café.

Moondae blinked. For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"Moondae-ssi?"

Ahyeon spoke first, voice laced with recognition and relief. It took Moondae a moment to recover. Right—Ahyeon had never introduced himself. It would be strange to acknowledge him by name now, so Moondae slipped easily into the polite rhythm of a barista.

"Welcome, sir. Would you like a coffee?"

Ahyeon stepped closer, a faint smile curving his lips, though there was something tentative in his movement—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be this happy seeing Moondae again.

"I’d like an iced coffee... and maybe a few cakes? Could you recommend something popular? It’s my first time visiting."

Moondae nodded, professional smile intact, though a flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. Of course Ahyeon would ask for a recommendation—he looked like someone who never ordered the same thing twice.

“Would you prefer it to go, or will you be dining in?”

“Ah…” Ahyeon glanced around. The café wasn’t full yet—only a few early lunch guests murmuring over their drinks.

“I think I’ll stay here.”

“Very well. Please take a seat while I prepare your order.”

Moondae turned, about to head behind the counter, when he felt a light touch on his wrist.

“Um… Moondae-ssi?”

He paused and met Ahyeon’s eyes. They were filled with something warm and genuine—a quiet concern that felt oddly out of place in such a calm setting.

“Yes?”

“You’re… okay, right? I tried looking for you that night, but you were already gone.”

Moondae hesitated, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. There was no need for anyone to worry about him—especially not an esper who barely knew him. But somehow, Ahyeon had remembered.

“I’m fine,” Moondae said softly, voice calm. “Thank you for helping me that night... Um?”

“Ah—Seon Ahyeon,” the esper replied, slightly flustered.

“Right. Thank you, Ahyeon-ssi. Because of you, I’m still alive and able to work here.”

A flush rose to Ahyeon’s cheeks, and he glanced away quickly, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like “I’m glad.” Without another word, he slipped into a seat by the window, tapping his fingers nervously against the edge of the table.

Moondae didn’t say anything else. He turned around and headed to the counter, pouring iced coffee into a tall glass and selecting three of the most photogenic cakes from the display.

He placed them gently on a tray and exhaled.

So much for a normal workday.

Moondae placed the iced coffee on the tray with a small napkin tucked underneath, followed by three carefully selected slices of cake: a soft strawberry shortcake, a matcha roll with cream, and a dark chocolate tart that looked sinful under the warm lights.

Balancing the tray with practiced ease, he walked toward the table where Seon Ahyeon sat—still by the window, gaze following the slow drift of clouds outside.

"Here you go," Moondae said quietly. "One iced coffee and the most popular cakes on our menu."

"Thank you," Ahyeon replied, looking up—and this time, he didn’t just smile.

He studied Moondae’s face.

Not just his face, actually.

The curve of his neck, the faint pulse just beneath the skin, the cadence of his breath… and most of all, the rhythm of his heart.

Ahyeon had always been more sensitive than other espers. It was something his instructors had labeled both a strength and a flaw—his hyper-awareness of the emotional and physical states around him. He could differentiate between a civilian, an esper, and a guide not with his eyes, but by listening. Not to their words, but to the subtle language of their heartbeat.

And right now, listening to Moondae’s—he realized it wasn’t the calm, even beat of a civilian. Nor the slightly aggressive rhythm of a fellow esper.

It was different. Stable, balanced… too perfectly attuned.

A guide.

Ahyeon's eyes widened slightly.

That night… how had he not noticed?

He remembered the chaos, the weight of his body moving on autopilot as he carried someone to safety. The pounding of his own pulse in his ears. His mind had been a blur of fractured emotion and spiraling thoughts, too caught up in everything to realize the one he was helping was more than just a civilian.

He’d felt safe beside Moondae without understanding why.

And now it made sense.

"You really are okay," Ahyeon said softly, almost to himself.

Moondae tilted his head. “Huh?”

"Nothing,” Ahyeon shook his head, smile returning—gentler now, touched with something like admiration. “Just… I’m glad I came in today.”

Moondae’s expression didn’t change much, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. It was always like this—moments where people seemed to look at him a little too closely, as if they could see something he worked hard to keep hidden.

Ahyeon sensed it too—the slight shift in energy, the way Moondae instinctively pulled back behind that polite exterior.

So, he decided not to push.

Instead, he reached for his coffee and took a sip, then made an appreciative noise at the taste.

“This is really good.”

“Glad to hear that,” Moondae replied, tone smooth as ever. “Enjoy your break, Ahyeon-ssi.”

As he turned to leave, Ahyeon found himself watching Moondae walk away—calm, composed, efficient in his movements.

He wondered if Moondae knew he’d been found out.

He wondered, too, why he felt the strange urge to keep it a secret.

For now… he would keep pretending.

... 

The day wasn’t over yet.

Seon Ahyeon was still seated near the window, slowly savoring the cakes one bite at a time. Moondae had just finished wiping down the counter, finally allowing himself a moment to rest his feet when the soft chime above the café door rang again.

He turned, instinctively preparing to welcome the next customer.

But before he could even open his mouth, a familiar voice called out.

“Oh! Moondae-ssi!”

Moondae blinked. “...Sejin-ssi.”

The tall esper strode in with casual confidence, a light smile curling at the corners of his lips. His hair was slightly tousled, and his dark coat contrasted sharply with the pastel tones of the café. He looked entirely out of place and yet oddly comfortable.

“I didn’t expect to see you working here,” Sejin continued. “This café has been the talk of the city, you know? My coworkers keep raving about the coffee. I finally decided to check it out for myself.”

“I’m glad your colleagues enjoyed their orders,” Moondae replied smoothly.

Technically, this was only his first day, so those coworkers had likely been served by Choi Jin. Still, if the place stayed busy, there was a higher chance of good tips. That was all that mattered.

Sejin's sharp gaze swept over him. “You're hurt again.”

“There was an incident last night. The injury’s healing.” Moondae’s voice was calm, his eyes unreadable. “What would you like to order, Sejin-ssi?”

The esper scanned the menu briefly before rattling off an extensive list—two iced americanos, three vanilla lattes, a caramel macchiato, and half a dozen assorted pastries. Moondae began jotting everything down without comment, though his brow arched slightly at the volume.

“Please have them all packed to go,” Sejin added casually. “My friends at the agency are too busy to come themselves, and I still have work after this.”

“Noted, sir. Please wait a moment.”

Just as Sejin was about to find a seat, he paused and reached into the pocket of his coat. From it, he produced a small packet—a plaster, neatly wrapped and clearly meant for someone who hadn’t had the time to care for their own wounds properly.

He extended it toward Moondae without a word of explanation.

Moondae stared at it for a moment.

“For when you change your bandage,” Sejin said, his voice lower now. Not soft, but… less guarded.

There was no smugness. No forced charm.

Just concern.

“Thank you,” Moondae replied simply, taking the plaster with steady hands.

He didn’t say more.

Didn’t need to.

Then, without missing a beat, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen, already thinking about how long it would take to prepare such an oversized order.

Behind him, Sejin stood still for a few more seconds, watching the empty space where Moondae had been.

Then he smiled to himself.

And took a seat.

Seon Ahyeon was still quietly enjoying his iced coffee, watching the gentle way light spilled through the café windows, when a soft scrape of a chair pulled him slightly from his thoughts.

He glanced up just as a tall figure placed his drink on the table nearby.

“Mind if I sit here?” the man asked, voice light and casual, eyes crinkled in a friendly smile.

Ahyeon took a moment to process the face.

Lee Sejin.

They were both from the same agency—Ahyeon recognized him immediately, even if their paths hadn’t crossed often beyond the occasional meeting room or training session. Sejin had a reputation for being approachable, easy to talk to, the kind of person who could joke with anyone and somehow make it feel natural.

“S-sure,” Ahyeon replied softly, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Sejin settled in with the ease of someone used to making themselves at home in unfamiliar spaces. He sipped his drink and glanced around. “Didn’t expect it to be this cozy. This place has been hyped up a lot lately.”

Ahyeon nodded once, eyes drifting toward the large front window. “It’s n-nice.”

“Mmm,” Sejin hummed, glancing at the menu again as if double-checking something. “Came here because a few coworkers wouldn’t stop talking about the coffee. And now I’m stuck carrying half the dessert menu back with me.”

Ahyeon smiled faintly at the mental image. “You’re doing a good job, then.”

Sejin laughed, a short but bright sound. “Right? Should’ve charged them a delivery fee.”

There was a brief lull—comfortable rather than awkward.

Sejin looked over at him curiously, then said, “I don’t think we’ve ever really talked before. You’re Ahyeon, right?”

Ahyeon turned to him, slightly surprised that Sejin remembered his name. “Y-yeah.”

“I’m Lee Sejin.”

“I know,” Ahyeon replied quickly, then blinked and added, “I mean—I’ve seen you around.”

Sejin chuckled again. “Guess that makes sense. We’re technically coworkers, even if we’ve never had a mission together.”

Ahyeon’s fingers brushed the rim of his glass. “It’s rare that anyone actually talks to me like this.”

That seemed to catch Sejin’s attention—not in a dramatic way, but enough for him to pause before responding. “I figured you might not be the chatty type. That’s okay. I just thought… this looked like a good table to sit at.”

Ahyeon gave a small nod. His lips quirked just a little, the way they did when he wanted to smile but didn’t quite know how. “It is.”

No pressure. No expectations. Just quiet company, gently offered.

It felt rare.

And Seon Ahyeon found himself strangely grateful for it.

The steady hum of conversation filled the café, laced with the soft hiss of the espresso machine and the gentle clink of cutlery. Moondae was still in the kitchen, preparing the final touches of Sejin’s absurdly large order. Out front, the atmosphere remained relaxed.

Until the door opened with a forceful shove.

Heads turned as a tall man stumbled into the café. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a slightly stained coat over a crumpled shirt. His hair was unkempt, his face flushed with alcohol. A few guests blinked and looked away awkwardly, pretending not to notice. But for Ahyeon, the shift in the air was immediate and sharp.

He didn't need to look.

He felt it.

The intruder’s emotional wavelength was all over the place—volatile, swaying between confusion, irritation, and something darker. An esper, drunk and spiraling.

Behind the counter stood a young woman, visibly startled by the man’s entrance. She straightened her posture, trying to maintain professionalism.

“Welcome to Café Cloud Nine, sir. May I take your order?”

The man staggered a step forward and smirked. “Order? You think I came here for coffee?”

Ahyeon’s gaze flicked to Sejin, who had already set his drink down.

“I take it this isn’t normal,” Sejin muttered.

Ahyeon shook his head slightly, standing up.

The esper’s eyes locked onto the woman. “Why don’t you come out from behind there, sweetheart? You’ve got a nice voice. Bet you look better up close.”

The woman took a step back, her hands tightening around a dish towel.

That was all the cue Ahyeon and Sejin needed.

Both rose from their seats, making their way toward the counter in sync. Just as Sejin opened his mouth to speak, the kitchen door swung open and Moondae emerged, balancing a tray of carefully packed drinks and pastries.

His eyes immediately registered the situation.

Without hesitation, he placed the tray on a nearby side table and stepped forward. “Sir,” he said calmly, “you’re disturbing our guests. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The esper’s gaze shifted to him—and instantly sharpened.

“Oh? Who are you supposed to be?”

“I work here,” Moondae replied evenly. “Let me call someone to help you get home.”

The man let out a mocking laugh. “So you think you can boss me around, huh?”

Without warning, he lunged forward—half-drunk, but fast. His arm shot out, knocking over a glass of water on the counter. The woman behind it flinched and stumbled back, nearly falling. Moondae reached out to steady her—but that left him exposed.

The man’s fist came up, slow but heavy.

Before it could land—

Crash.

Sejin grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing and shoved him backward with practiced ease, sending him stumbling into a nearby table. The chair clattered loudly to the ground.

“You’ve had enough,” Sejin said coldly, the playful tone in his voice long gone.

Ahyeon had already stepped in front of Moondae and the shaken Choi Jin, standing like a wall between them and the intruder. His stance was casual, but his fingers twitched faintly—ready.

The esper struggled upright, swaying, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “You—who do you think you are? You wanna fight?”

Sejin took a slow step forward, cracking his knuckles. “No,” he said. “I just don’t like people who harass café staff and act like the world owes them something.”

The esper roared and charged, but this time, he never made it halfway.

Ahyeon moved first.

He didn’t touch the man. He didn’t even look at him. But a sudden, chilling pressure filled the room—a refined burst of esper energy, sharp enough to suffocate.

The drunk esper stopped mid-step, staggering as if the floor beneath him had suddenly shifted. He clutched his head, breathing heavily, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Ahyeon’s voice was low, but crystal clear.

“Leave. Now. Before I make you.”

The man trembled, then turned and bolted—slamming into the door on his way out before stumbling onto the street outside.

Silence fell.

The café remained frozen for several heartbeats.

Then slowly, the tension broke. Conversations resumed, hushed and awkward at first. The woman behind the counter slumped down slightly, tears stinging the corners of her eyes, though she smiled in gratitude.

“Noona, are you okay?“ Moondae asked. 

“Its fine. Thank you,” she whispered to Moondae, who offered her a reassuring nod.

Sejin turned to Ahyeon. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

Ahyeon looked away, a bit embarrassed. “He was... too loud.”

Moondae’s eyes lingered on Ahyeon a beat longer than necessary.

He had felt it.

Not just the confrontation—but the faint, almost imperceptible way Ahyeon had positioned himself. Not just to protect the Choi Jin.

But to protect him.

“Thank you,” Moondae said quietly, to both of them.

Sejin grinned, brushing a hand through his hair. “Well, I guess that earned me a free cookie at least.”

Moondae almost smiled.

Almost.

But inside, something stirred. The fear he had kept so carefully hidden now felt cracked open, if only slightly. The secret he carried was fragile—and these upeople were getting too close.

He turned back toward the kitchen without another word.

Ahyeon watched him go, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Sejin didn’t notice.

But Ahyeon did.

There was something more to Moondae than what he let the world see.

And the next time something came for him—Ahyeon swore, it wouldn’t be a close call.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the café windows in golden waves, casting soft patterns across the polished wooden floor. Park Moondae moved through the quiet space, wiping down tables and collecting the last of the used cups. The hum of the espresso machine had long faded, replaced by a peaceful silence that always followed the post-lunch lull.

Just as he was placing the final glass onto the drying rack, a soft chime echoed faintly inside his mind.

 [New Side Quest Available!]

Quest Title: “Become Someone’s Peace”

Description: Volunteer for three consecutive days at the Esper & Guide Community Center. Support at least one esper per day without using force or verbal pressure.

Objective: 3/3 Supportive Interactions

Rewards: [Passive Skill – Emotional Buffer], +1 Community Reputation, Unlock Hidden Dialogue Options

Time Limit: 5 Days

Status: Not Accepted

Moondae stared at the floating notification, expression unreadable.

“…Another one?”

He let the side quest sit for a few seconds, reading the description once more. Then, with a small breath, he tapped Accept.

Quest Accepted!

May your presence be a quiet shelter.

The glowing message faded, leaving behind only the stillness of the café.

“Moondae-yah, we’re done. You want me to lock the back or are you staying?” Choi Jin called from the hallway, pulling her cardigan over her uniform.

“I’ll finish up here, noona.”

“Alright. Thanks, kiddo.” She started toward the door, then paused as she noticed Moondae standing still near the counter. “Something on your mind?”

“…Noona.”

“Mm?”

“Do you know any esper or guide community centers that accept volunteers?”

Choi Jin tilted her head, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You mean… to help out?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just for a few days.”

She walked closer, crossing her arms and looking at him curiously. “Why do you ask? You trying to figure out if you're a guide or esper?”

“…I already know.”

He looked up to meet her eyes. “I'm a guide. I awakened a few days ago.”

The words hung in the air for a beat.

Then Choi Jin let out a low whistle and gave a half-smile. “Well, I’ll be damned. All this time I’ve been bossing around a guide and didn’t even know it.”

Moondae gave a small shrug, a faint curve tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Noona,” he said gently. “You okay?”

“I’m just surprised.” She scratched her cheek with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Actually… my little brother awakened as a guide too. Not long ago. He jumped straight into the agency life—said he didn’t want to wait around or feel left behind.”

Her smile dimmed slightly.

“He used to follow me around everywhere, but now he barely picks up my calls.” She looked away. “Guess he’s too busy ‘guiding the future’ now.”

Moondae didn’t respond right away, but his expression softened.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied with a light chuckle. “That’s just how things are, right? People awaken, and life starts moving faster than we expect.”

She gave him a small nudge with her elbow. “Anyway, there’s a community center near Hongdae. Run by Director Han—super chill. They’re used to people who just awakened, or guides who don’t want to join an agency yet. You should fit right in.”

“Thanks, noona.”

“No problem. Just don’t disappear on me like my brother, yeah?”

Moondae gave her a small bow. “I won’t.”

“Good. Now finish closing up, Mr. Guide.” She waved and slipped out the front door, humming a tune as the door chimed softly behind her.

Left alone once more, Moondae leaned against the counter. The air was still. Peaceful.

The sky over Hongdae was overcast when Moondae stepped out of the subway station. The streets were alive with music, laughter, and the buzz of shops nestled closely together. But further down a quieter street stood a modest white-and-green building. A wooden sign hung above its entrance:

 Esper & Guide Community Center – Hongdae District

Moondae paused at the entrance, taking a slow breath before pushing the door open. The scent of clean disinfectant and herbal tea filled the air. The interior felt more like a small library than an office—warm lighting, rows of neatly arranged pamphlets, and a few potted plants scattered throughout.

A middle-aged man in a plain shirt greeted him from behind the reception desk, his expression gentle yet firm.

“Welcome. Can I help you with something?”

Moondae gave a slight nod. “Someone told me this place accepts volunteers.”

“Oh?” The man stood and approached. “Then you must be new.”

“New… in more ways than one,” Moondae admitted honestly.

The man chuckled softly. “I’m Han Jaemyung, the director here. But everyone just calls me Director Han. And you are?”

“Park Moondae.”

Director Han studied him for a moment—not in judgment, but as though quietly reading something beneath the surface. Then he gave a calm nod.

“Are you an esper?”

“A guide.”

“Registered with an agency?”

“Not yet.”

Moondae shrugged lightly. “And… I’m not sure if I want to be.”

Director Han didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured toward a quiet corner with a small table and chair.

“Take a seat for a moment. I’ll grab a simple form. Just basic info. No contracts, no forced testing. Here, you just help however you can. And we help however we can.”

“…Thank you.”

Moondae sat down, observing the space as Director Han disappeared into the back room. Across the hall, a purple-haired volunteer was gently speaking with a nervous young esper, likely finishing a support session. On the wall nearby hung a poster that read:

 “You don’t need to be perfect to support others. Just be present with kindness.”

A few minutes later, Director Han returned with a clipboard, a form, and a blank ID card.

“We like to keep things simple around here. Fill this out, and you can start as early as tomorrow if you’d like. We usually assign tasks based on your comfort level and the needs of the visitors.”

Moondae took the form, studying it for a second before picking up the pen.

“I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Great. I hope you’ll find a good rhythm here, Park Moondae.”

Director Han gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before heading back to the desk.

And for the first time since his powers awakened, Moondae felt like—maybe—he was finally stepping into a world he could begin to understand.

... 

By the time Moondae arrived at the community center, the sun had already begun to dip behind the buildings, casting soft orange light through the windows. The hum of daily activity was quieter now—most of the daytime crowd had already left.

He greeted the front desk staff with a small nod, and they returned it with genuine smiles.

"Moondae-ssi! You're right on time," called out Yeonah, one of the full-time volunteers. She was a cheerful woman in her late twenties with a bright scarf tied around her wrist. "Director Han said you'd be dropping by again today. He’s in a meeting, but I can show you the ropes tonight."

Moondae gave a slight bow. "Thank you. I’m still learning."

"No worries. Everyone here started as a rookie." She grinned and waved for him to follow. “Come, I’ll show you to the quiet room. That’s where most of the one-on-one sessions happen.”

The room she brought him to was softly lit, with plush seating and soothing colors on the walls. A few shelves held toys and books for younger espers, while another corner had meditation tools and emotional support items.

“We usually don’t ask newcomers to handle anything too heavy,” Yeonah explained, setting down a clipboard. “But today’s a little different. We’re short on guides… and we have a small emergency.”

She lowered her voice as she glanced at the child sitting in the corner, hugging his knees tightly on a beanbag.

“That’s Jisoo. He’s seven. His esper ability awakened last week—telekinesis, possibly with emotional amplification. His parents brought him in because he’s scared of himself. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but he already broke their dining table during a tantrum.”

Moondae’s eyes softened. “Is he stable now?”

“He calmed down a bit after arriving, but we haven’t been able to match him with a proper guide today.” Yeonah hesitated, then looked at him. “Can you stay with him until we find someone? Just try to keep him grounded. If anything feels wrong, call for me immediately.”

Moondae nodded once, slowly. “I’ll try.”

As Yeonah stepped out, Moondae took a seat across from the boy, leaving a safe distance between them. Jisoo didn’t look up, but Moondae didn’t speak right away either. Instead, he simply… waited. Let the silence settle. Let the boy sense that nothing was expected of him.

After a while, Moondae spoke softly.

“Do you like dinosaurs?”

Jisoo peeked through his arms, sniffling. “…Y-yeah.”

“I used to think the T-Rex was cool, but I like the ankylosaurus more now. It has armor. Like a knight.”

The boy blinked. A beat passed.

“…I like the spinosaurus,” he mumbled. “It can swim.”

“Ah, a strong swimmer,” Moondae said, nodding like it was the most important revelation in the world. “That’s very cool.”

A small twitch of a smile appeared on the child’s lips. And then, without warning, the lights flickered. The air grew heavy, a sudden wave of pressure brushing past Moondae’s skin like static. Jisoo’s breathing quickened, panic setting in.

“I-I don’t want to do it again—I don’t want to break anything—”

Moondae instinctively reached out—not physically, but with the energy he’d only recently begun to understand. A deep breath. He let his presence stretch gently across the space between them, like a soft blanket laid over turbulent waves.

 Guide ability detected.

Mental Stabilization skill: Level 1 activated.

The child froze, eyes wide, as the pressure in the room dissipated little by little. The light steadied. His shoulders loosened, and the sharp breath in his lungs settled into something quieter.

“You’re okay,” Moondae said gently. “You’re doing really well.”

Jisoo sniffled again. “You’re not scared?”

Moondae shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

Outside the door, Yeonah peeked in—having felt the earlier pressure spike—and gave Moondae a quiet thumbs-up before disappearing again.

Moondae let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Maybe… this was something he could do after all.

The room had quieted. Jisoo was still curled up, but his fingers had relaxed slightly from their white-knuckled grip. His breaths came steadier now, though the faint shimmer in the air—remnants of his uncontrolled telekinesis—hadn’t completely vanished.

Moondae took another breath. This time, more deliberate. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus inward.

He still wasn’t fully used to the sensation—this quiet thrum of energy that responded to his will like warm water beneath the skin. But when he reached toward it, the system responded with a faint chime in his mind.

Mental Stabilization: Level 1 skill activated.

Guide Aura deployed. Target recognized: Esper Type – Child, Unstable.

Slowly, carefully, Moondae let the aura flow from him. It wasn’t something loud or visible—it was subtle, like a hush in a chaotic room. It wrapped around Jisoo like a protective cocoon: soft, gentle, reassuring. He imagined it as a hand held out in the dark, waiting to be grasped.

Jisoo blinked. The fear in his eyes wavered, replaced by confused curiosity.

“It’s okay,” Moondae said softly, inching just a bit closer. “I’m not here to scold you.”

The child didn’t flinch. His tiny fingers clutched at the edge of his sleeves, but the tension in his shoulders had dropped noticeably.

“I’m a guide,” Moondae added after a pause. “Do you know what that is?”

Jisoo shook his head, wide eyes fixed on him.

“Well…” Moondae offered a faint smile. “Guides help espers. Especially when their powers feel too big or too heavy. Sometimes, those powers come out when you're upset or scared, right?”

The boy nodded hesitantly.

“So, when that happens… I can help you calm down. I can help make the scary feelings a little smaller.”

Jisoo tilted his head. “…Like magic?”

“Kind of,” Moondae said. “But it’s not about spells. It’s more like… sharing warmth. Like when you hold a cup of hot chocolate and your hands stop shaking.”

That made the boy smile faintly.

Moondae took the chance and reached out, this time physically—his hand moving slowly across the space between them. “Can I sit closer?”

Jisoo hesitated. But then, he gave a small nod.

Moondae scooted forward and sat cross-legged beside the beanbag, careful not to tower over the boy. The aura continued to pulse gently from him, steady and inviting.

“Do you want to try something with me?” he asked.

Jisoo looked up.

“Close your eyes for a second. And think of a quiet place. A place where no loud things happen. Like a library… or maybe a soft pillow fort.”

The boy’s eyes fluttered closed. “I like pillow forts…”

Moondae smiled. “Good. Now imagine you’re in that fort. You have your favorite toys with you, and no one is yelling. Everything feels warm and safe.”

He kept his voice low and smooth, guiding Jisoo through the imagery.

As the boy relaxed, the slight glimmers of uncontrolled energy around him faded completely.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then, without looking, Jisoo reached out and took Moondae’s hand.

The guide blinked.

The child’s grip was tiny. Fragile. But he wasn’t trembling anymore.

“You’re really warm,” Jisoo mumbled.

“Mm.” Moondae gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s what a guide is for.”

Outside the quiet room, Yeonah peeked in again—this time with tears subtly welling up in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. Just quietly closed the door again to give them more space.

Chapter Text

The moment Moondae wiped the sweat from his neck, the familiar ding echoed inside his head.

[Daily Mission: “Exercise or Die” – COMPLETE]

+200 EXP

+1 Random Stat Point

He leaned against the cool metal of the bus stop pole, catching his breath. Just ten minutes of light jogging was enough to satisfy the mission requirements, but his body still wasn't used to it. He'd never been the athletic type—even in his past life.

“…Still alive,” he muttered, chuckling softly to himself.

As the warmth in his muscles slowly ebbed, he finally opened the status window he had been avoiding for days.

[User Information]

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: Guide

 

Level: 15

Physical Strength: 2

Mental Strength: 10

Agility: 2

Stamina: 5

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: None

Side Quest: Become Someone’s Peace

It wasn’t bad. In fact, considering the short amount of time since his awakening, it was more than decent. Between his first side quest, the daily mission he’d diligently completed, and a few unexpected achievements from volunteering, he’d gathered points fast.

Still…

 [Time Remaining Until Guide Association Registration: 84 Days]

When he remembered that Seon Ahyeon and Lee Sejin had stats totaling over 70, his own numbers felt like a drop in the ocean. He wasn’t even halfway there.

He sighed. "Guess I need to squeeze every hour I can from these 84 days."

He briefly considered assigning his remaining points to stamina or agility—but decided against it. For now, saving them might be wiser.

He stretched, feeling the strain in his arms and legs, then turned to head back to his apartment to change. The afternoon sun was already leaning west, signaling the time to prepare for his café shift.

Tomorrow would be his last day volunteering at the community esper-guide center. It had been exhausting balancing both jobs, but surprisingly… rewarding.

Especially yesterday.

Jisoo—his first real esper patient.

The boy had only looked like he was throwing a tantrum, but the psychic energy lashing out from his small frame had nearly blown out the reinforced windows of the center’s therapy room. His fear of himself was stronger than anyone else’s.

When no other guides were available, the staff had nervously turned to Moondae.

And somehow, he’d succeeded.

He didn’t know exactly how—just that something in his aura had reached Jisoo. Calmed him. Let the child breathe again. By the end of the session, Jisoo had clung to his sleeve like a lifeline, sniffling but no longer trembling.

His parents had cried. And paid him generously.

They even offered to register Moondae as Jisoo’s personal guide.

He had declined.

Bonding wasn’t a light decision. It required mutual understanding and deep, long-term commitment. Jisoo was still a child, overwhelmed and vulnerable. His agreement now wouldn’t mean the same thing five or ten years from today.

Still, Moondae had promised to be available if Jisoo ever needed help again.

His steps grew steadier as he walked, the city’s rhythm slipping back into focus. The notifications had faded for now, and all that remained was the weight of tomorrow’s missions—and the steady beat of his own rising determination.

The café was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon. A soft instrumental tune floated through the air as the occasional sound of steaming milk or clinking glasses echoed faintly from the counter.

Moondae placed a tall glass of iced coffee and a plate of strawberry shortcake onto the tray, then brought it to the corner table by the window.

Seon Ahyeon sat there, his chin resting lightly on one hand, eyes gazing out at nothing in particular. There was something off in his expression—detached, almost like he wasn’t really present.

“Your order,” Moondae said softly as he set the tray down.

Ahyeon blinked and sat up straighter, smiling faintly. “Ah… thank you.”

Moondae gave a slight nod. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He was about to walk away, but paused. The café was nearly empty, and it wasn’t like the manager would mind if he sat for a few minutes. After a small internal debate, he pulled out the chair across from Ahyeon and sat down.

Ahyeon didn’t react strongly. He simply looked at Moondae, mildly surprised—but not uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” Moondae said. “Just thought you looked like you could use some company.”

Ahyeon let out a light chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not really,” Moondae replied. “But I’ve seen you here a few times, and today feels different.”

Ahyeon stirred his coffee with the straw, eyes fixed on the swirling ice.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admitted. “Everything’s been… tense, lately.”

“About work?”

“Partly.” Ahyeon glanced down at his lap. “Partly just… me.”

There was a quiet moment where Moondae simply observed the subtle movements of Ahyeon’s hands—restless, fidgeting, like they were looking for something to hold onto.

“Does it get… noisy?” Moondae asked, carefully.

Ahyeon looked up, startled. “You mean—?”

“I meant it generally,” Moondae said calmly. “But yeah. That kind of noise.”

Ahyeon studied him now with more intent. Not suspicion, but curiosity. There was something about Moondae that felt grounded, unshakable—like standing beside someone who wouldn’t flinch even if the world cracked open.

“…Are you a guide?” Ahyeon asked, voice low.

Moondae didn’t respond right away. He let the question linger between them for a few seconds.

Then he nodded. “I am.”

Ahyeon’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first.

“That makes sense,” he said finally. “You feel… calm. Not like most people.”

Moondae raised an eyebrow. “Most people?”

“People who walk too fast. People whose presence feels sharp,” Ahyeon murmured. “I don’t know how to explain it. With you, it’s… quieter.”

Moondae let the words settle before responding.

“Guides are supposed to help Espers find balance. Maybe that’s what you’re feeling.”

Ahyeon’s gaze dropped to his cake. “I haven’t been around many guides.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be,” Moondae replied, his voice even. “But if you ever feel like it’s getting too loud… you can talk to me.”

Ahyeon finally picked up his fork, breaking the tip of the cake and chewing slowly. He didn’t look up again for a while, but his shoulders lowered slightly, tension ebbing away.

Moondae sat with him a little longer in silence, letting the moment stretch. There was no need for big words. Sometimes, simply offering presence was enough.

Ahyeon had only taken a few more bites of the cake when Moondae noticed it—

a faint tremor in the glass of iced coffee.

Barely visible, but undeniably there. The way the straw quivered without wind, the surface of the drink rippling softly as if responding to invisible vibrations.

Moondae’s expression didn’t change, but inside, his instincts sharpened.

He could feel it now—the dissonance in Ahyeon’s aura. It clung to him like static electricity, subtle but growing heavier by the minute.

“Ahyeon,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

Ahyeon blinked, his focus slipping from the cake. “Hmm?”

“You’re trying to hold it in, aren’t you?”

The Esper hesitated. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded. “I’m used to it.”

“Would you let me help?” Moondae asked, his voice quieter now. “Just for a moment. I might be able to ease it a little.”

Ahyeon’s eyes widened slightly. “But I’m… I’m Class S. Aren’t you afraid of what might happen?”

“I am,” Moondae admitted without flinching. “But I’m still offering. It’s your call.”

There was a long pause. Then, slowly, Ahyeon extended his hand across the table.

“…Just for a moment,” he whispered.

Moondae nodded and reached out, gently wrapping his fingers around Ahyeon’s.

The contact was immediate—and overwhelming.

A tidal wave of emotion surged through Moondae: fear, frustration, deep loneliness, and something darker beneath it all—resentment, perhaps even guilt. It clawed its way into his senses, making his heart pound and his breath catch for half a second.

He closed his eyes.

Breathe. Stabilize. Focus.

Channeling his aura was a skill still new to him, but the core principle remained the same: extend your calm, root your presence, become the anchor.

Like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, his guide aura seeped gently into Ahyeon’s consciousness. It wasn’t forceful—it couldn’t be.

It was warm, slow, and quiet, like dipping into a calm lake after a long, hot day.

He felt the tension in Ahyeon’s fingers ease ever so slightly.

The ripples in the drink stopped.

Ahyeon didn’t say a word, but Moondae could sense it—the way the noise dimmed, how the air grew less dense between them.

It was working.

But it was also draining.

Moondae’s limbs grew heavier by the second. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, and a cold sweat formed along his spine.

S-class Espers were like furnaces. Stabilizing one without a proper bond or training was like throwing yourself into the flame with only damp cloth for armor.

Still, he held on.

Just a little longer.

Finally, after what felt like a small eternity, Ahyeon opened his eyes—clearer now, less dazed—and gently pulled his hand away.

“…You really are a guide,” he said, almost in awe. “That was… quieter than anything I’ve felt in months.”

Moondae offered a small, tired smile. “Glad to help.”

“You’re pale,” Ahyeon murmured. “You didn’t have to go that far—”

“I chose to,” Moondae said simply. “Just… give me a second.”

He leaned back in his chair, taking slow breaths. His aura would recover with time, but for now, he just needed to sit still and not pass out in front of a customer.

He didn’t expect it to work.

Not completely.

When Moondae asked for permission to hold his hand, Ahyeon had agreed out of politeness, not expectation. The boy looked sincere—quiet but determined—and there was something grounding in his presence that Ahyeon didn’t want to brush off. Still, he was an S-class Esper. Stabilizing him wasn’t exactly easy.

But now… the haze in his mind had thinned.

The faint ringing in his ears had faded, and his chest didn’t feel as tight anymore. It was subtle, but real. Like the world had shifted half a degree back into place.

He really did something.

Ahyeon looked at Moondae, now pale and visibly worn out. His eyes were a little glazed, and he was clearly trying to hold himself together despite the fatigue radiating off him.

A pang of guilt pulled in Ahyeon’s chest.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He came here to clear his head, not to become a burden to someone who clearly already had enough on their plate.

“You’re really okay?” he asked softly, concern lacing his voice. “We can go to the clinic if—”

“It’s fine,” Moondae interrupted, his voice low but steady. “Just some energy depletion. I need to get back before noona notices.”

Ahyeon stood up with him, ready to offer support again if needed. But Moondae had barely taken a few steps when his knees gave out beneath him.

Without thinking, Ahyeon caught him.

It wasn’t difficult, but the sudden shift startled him. Moondae was lighter than expected, and far too unsteady.

“Moondae-ya!”

Choi Jin’s voice rang out as she rushed toward them, her eyes wide with alarm. “What happened?!”

“I don’t feel well,” Moondae murmured faintly, his voice thinner now. “Sorry… Can I rest for a bit?”

“Of course,” Choi Jin nodded, already moving to grab water. “Take him to the back.”

Ahyeon carefully helped guide Moondae into the staff restroom. He laid him gently on the sofa, arranging one of the cushions behind his head.

Moondae’s eyes were half-lidded, his breaths shallow. His hand twitched slightly from fatigue.

This is too much.

Ahyeon hesitated only for a moment before sitting down beside him and gently taking Moondae’s hand in his own. He didn’t say anything—just focused, quietly letting some of his stable energy flow through the touch.

It wasn’t much. He wasn’t trained to do this in return. But if it could offer even a small sense of balance…

He felt it when Moondae’s pulse began to settle.

His breathing grew a little steadier, and the tension in his fingers softened.

Ahyeon watched quietly, his brows faintly knit in thought. He hadn’t known what level Moondae was. Honestly, he still didn’t. But the boy had managed to help him when he needed it the most. And now… he looked completely drained.

Ahyeon looked down at their still-connected hands and spoke softly.

“…You shouldn’t have pushed yourself like that.”

He wasn’t scolding. Just a gentle voice filled with quiet regret.

Then after a moment, almost to himself:

“But… thank you.”

Moondae’s eyes fluttered open slowly. His brows were still slightly furrowed from the lingering fatigue, but there was color returning to his face. Relief washed over Ahyeon instantly, and without thinking, he gave Moondae’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’re awake,” Ahyeon said softly, voice laced with concern.

“…Yeah,” Moondae replied hoarsely. He blinked at the soft light in the break room before shifting his gaze to Ahyeon. “You’re still here?”

Ahyeon nodded, cheeks a little warm. “Of course. I was worried.”

A quiet laugh escaped Moondae. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”

Ahyeon shook his head quickly. “Don’t be. You helped me first.”

Moondae sat up a little, leaning back against the sofa with a small wince. “That was reckless of me…”

“Then I guess I’m reckless too,” Ahyeon said with a shy smile. “For staying and holding your hand.”

Moondae looked at him with mild surprise, and for a second, their eyes met in quiet understanding—different lives, same exhaustion.

Then Moondae cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Hey, how old are you?”

“Me?” Ahyeon blinked, then answered, “Twenty.”

“Same here,” Moondae muttered. “You seem younger, you know.”

“Eh?” Ahyeon tilted his head. “Really?”

“You just… act so well-mannered. Like someone who probably bows even when talking on the phone.”

Ahyeon laughed awkwardly. “I do that sometimes…”

Moondae let out a breathy chuckle. “Thought so.”

There was a short pause before Moondae turned to him, something lighter in his expression now. “Let’s drop the formal talk. It’s weird when we’re the same age.”

Ahyeon blinked again. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” Moondae said with a faint smile. “It feels too stiff. Just speak comfortably.”

Ahyeon’s eyes widened slightly, then his whole face lit up with a bright, almost childlike joy. “Are you sure?!”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”

“That’s… that’s so cool!” Ahyeon’s grin grew wider, and his posture relaxed noticeably. “I’ve never been asked that before. This is… nice.”

Moondae laughed again, softer this time. “You’re really happy about this, huh?”

Ahyeon nodded eagerly, his smile refusing to fade. “Yeah. I don’t have many friends I can speak casually with. Especially not someone who saved me like you did.”

“Technically, you saved me too just now,” Moondae pointed out.

Ahyeon grinned, his cheeks a bit pink. “Then we’re even.”

They stayed like that for a few more moments, the warmth between them replacing the heaviness from earlier. And for the first time that day, Ahyeon felt something other than anxiety—he felt safe.

Chapter Text

Moondae wiped his damp hands with a towel as he stepped out of the community center’s locker room. His last shift as a volunteer had just ended, marking the official completion of his side quest. He hadn’t expected to feel this accomplished, but he allowed himself a small, quiet smile.

A soft chime rang in his ears, followed by the appearance of a familiar translucent window.

 [Side Quest: Become Someone’s Peace – Complete]

Reward:

– 200 EXP

– 2 Stat Points

– Passive Skill Acquired: Emotional Buffer

— Unlock Hidden Dialogue Options

Moondae blinked, then tapped the newly acquired skill to check the description.

 Emotional Buffer (Passive)

Reduces the impact of esper emotional overflow by 30%.

Decreases emotional sync backlash.

Increases recovery rate of Guide’s mental energy after sync.

Recommended for guides working with high-tier espers.

 

He exhaled, almost relieved. After what happened with Ahyeon—his aura nearly collapsing from trying to stabilize that S-Class esper—this was more than welcome. It felt like the system was rewarding him not only with numbers, but with a layer of protection he desperately needed.

“Good,” he muttered, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Now I just need a few quiet days—”

His thoughts were cut short by a sharp vibration from his phone. A notification popped up, marked with the bright red emergency banner used only for gate incidents.

[Incoming call – Director Han]

Moondae picked up without hesitation.

“Director?”

“Moondae,” Han’s voice was terse, laced with urgency. “A gate just destabilized. Originally ranked D, but it’s now been reassessed as a Rank B. Something went wrong with the reading system.”

His heart dropped. A Rank B gate? That was no joke. Most of the esper and guide volunteers on duty wouldn’t have the capacity to deal with that kind of threat.

“We’ve sent out a formal emergency request,” Han continued, “but support teams won’t arrive for at least thirty minutes. In the meantime, I’m calling on all registered volunteers who are still within city limits. We need help evacuating civilians and managing the perimeter.”

“I’ll go,” Moondae said without pause.

“Even just helping to get the injured out will make a difference,” Han said. “Send me your location. I’ll reroute you to the gate.”

The call ended, and for a brief moment, Moondae stood still—feeling the residual tiredness in his body, the lingering echo of the aura he had spent on Ahyeon not long ago. But he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his jacket from the locker, zipped it up, and took a steadying breath.

A Rank B gate wasn’t something he was prepared to fight. But if he could help, even just by shielding an esper’s mind or guiding them through the mental storm—then he had to try.

He quickly opened the system screen again, allocating the two remaining stat points into Stamina. No time to overthink. If he was going into a gate zone, he needed to last.

 [Stamina increased to 7]

With one last glance at the now-quiet community center behind him, Moondae ran.

Moondae sprinted through the crowded sidewalk, weaving between pedestrians with barely a breath to spare. The city was winding down, lights flickering on in windows, but the panic that gripped his chest kept him in motion. His phone buzzed with another emergency notification from the center—bold red text that screamed urgency.

He raised his arm the moment he spotted an empty taxi pulling up to the curb.

“To District 11,” he said as he climbed in, voice sharp with urgency. “Near the border of Zone C.”

The driver blinked, visibly startled. “You mean near the gate? The one that just escalated?”

“Yes. Please. Just get me there—fast.”

Without another word, the driver stepped on the gas.

The city blurred past in streaks of headlights and neon signs. But as they got closer to the designated area, the atmosphere changed. The usual hum of traffic and conversation gave way to distant sirens, to tremors that shook the pavement beneath them. The air thickened, charged with something unnatural—familiar to anyone who had ever been near a Gate.

The driver stopped abruptly a few blocks away. “This is as far as I go.”

Moondae didn’t hesitate. He threw the door open and ran.

Darkness had crept across the sky, but the street ahead glowed in hues of red and orange from the emergency lights and fires burning out of control. The sound hit him next: screaming civilians, panicked voices over malfunctioning comms, the screeching of monsters and the thud of impact after impact.

It was chaos.

The Gate pulsed at the center of it all like a bleeding wound in the fabric of the world—its swirling energy flickering wildly, far beyond what a rank D gate should’ve produced. No wonder they’d issued a correction. This was no D-rank. The sheer pressure in the air suggested at least a rank B, if not worse.

Esper units were scattered across the field, some fighting tooth and nail, others already down. Moondae’s eyes caught on a young esper barely standing, blood dripping from his mouth as he tried to keep a barrier up. His guide was behind him, pale and bleeding from the nose, trying to regulate both their conditions.

“Shit…” Moondae muttered, heart pounding as he forced himself forward.

This wasn’t just a skirmish. This was a full-scale failure. The kind of mistake that cost lives.

He ducked behind an overturned vehicle for a moment, scanning the area. Civilians were being evacuated by hastily gathered volunteers. Too few. Too slow. Screams echoed from a nearby building that was still partially intact, the structure rattling under the force of something—something large—hitting it from the inside.

A child cried for their parent. Another esper shouted for backup. And the monsters…

They weren’t what he was expecting. Rank D monsters were chaotic, yes—but they didn’t move like this. They didn’t coordinate. These ones did. Their eyes glowed with a strange, unnatural focus. They weren’t just attacking. They were hunting.

Moondae’s hands trembled as he pulled his volunteer badge from his jacket pocket.

He wasn’t here to fight. He knew that. But that didn’t mean he could stand still.

“Moondae-ssi!” someone called—an older volunteer from the center. “We need hands for civilian extraction! Can you help?”

“Yes!” he called back, voice louder than he expected. “Tell me where to go!”

“Building 4B—there are still people trapped inside!”

Without hesitation, Moondae ran. He had no weapon. No reinforced suit. Only the Emotional Buffer he’d been rewarded with… and his own resolve.

And even if he wasn't a fighter—he was still a guide.

And guides never let people face terror alone.

... 

Moondae didn't wait for backup.

The building loomed above him, its windows shattered, steel frame groaning with every tremor from the gate not far away. Smoke curled out from broken vents, and faint screams echoed from deep within—muffled by debris and the collapsing infrastructure.

He pushed open what remained of the front door, coughing as dust and ash rushed out to meet him.

Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by emergency lights blinking red, painting everything in a bloody hue. Rubble littered the ground. Shattered glass, broken ceiling panels, twisted furniture.

He had no map. No gear. Just his instincts.

“Hello?” he called out, voice hoarse. “Is anyone there?!”

A faint reply—cracked and desperate—came from somewhere above. “H-Here! Please!”

Moondae didn’t hesitate. He bolted toward the stairwell, only to find that the staircase had partially collapsed. One side still held, barely, the concrete stairs cracked but usable.

He climbed.

Every step was a risk—dust shifting, debris falling with every shake of the building. The second floor was a wreck. Office partitions torn apart. Files scattered like leaves. And there—beneath a fallen metal beam—was a civilian. A man in his thirties, clutching his arm, blood soaking through his sleeve.

“Oh thank God,” the man whispered when he saw Moondae. “You’re here. I thought—I thought I was going to die.”

“We’re getting out,” Moondae said, rushing to kneel beside him. He tried to lift the beam, but it was too heavy. No esper strength. No enhancement. Just raw effort.

He grit his teeth and slipped off his jacket, folding it into a makeshift pad. He wedged it beneath the sharp edge of the beam and then used his entire body weight to lift.

The beam shifted—just barely. Enough.

“Move! Now!” Moondae grunted.

The man dragged himself free with a scream of pain, collapsing into Moondae’s arms the moment he was out.

Moondae’s muscles were burning. His lungs screamed from the smoke. But there wasn’t time.

“I’ll help you down,” he said, slipping one of the man’s arms over his shoulders. “Hold on.”

They descended slowly, carefully. At one point, a tremor shook the stairwell and Moondae had to press them both against the wall as chunks of plaster rained from above. But they made it down—one step at a time.

Just as they reached the lobby again, another explosion rang out—closer this time.

And then he heard it. A growl.

Low. Inhuman.

Moondae turned just in time to see one of the rank B monsters emerge from the hallway. Its limbs were long and jagged, skin pulsating with sickly veins of red. Its eyes locked onto them—and it charged.

“Run—!” Moondae shouted, shoving the man toward the door.

He didn’t run.

Instead, he stood his ground. He activated the Emotional Buffer. The device glowed faintly on his wrist, responding to the sudden spike in fear and stress.

He forced calm into the space between them—dampening the creature’s aggressive intent just long enough.

Just long enough for the man to escape.

And then—he ran too.

The monster snapped at his heels, claws shredding through air just inches from his back. Moondae dove out the broken front doors, rolling onto the pavement, pain flaring through his side as he hit the ground hard.

A blast of light hit the monster seconds later—one of the esper units had arrived.

Moondae coughed, blinking up at the sky. His arms trembled. His knees felt like jelly. But he was alive.

And someone else was, too.

The monster had been taken down.

But the chaos hadn’t ended.

Even as Moondae caught his breath, more cries echoed through the area—guides shouting for support, esper agents collapsing mid-battle from overexertion, their bodies trembling and eyes unfocused from the flood of unstable energy swirling inside them.

Moondae didn’t have time to rest.

He pushed himself to his feet, wiping blood from his temple where a shard of glass had grazed him earlier. Around him, the battlefield was still burning—emergency responders weaving between the fallen, doing their best to evacuate the civilians.

But there weren’t enough guides.

He spotted an esper—young, barely older than him—on his knees near a destroyed car, panting hard. His aura was spiking out of control, the ground beneath him cracking from the pressure.

Moondae ran to him.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” Moondae said, dropping to his knees. “I’m a guide. I need to touch you, okay?”

The esper didn’t respond—eyes wide, breathing fast, hands clenched into fists as power threatened to explode from him.

Without waiting, Moondae reached out and grabbed the esper’s forearm.

The flood hit him immediately.

A storm of emotions—fear, rage, panic—surged through the link. Moondae gritted his teeth, forcing his own energy forward, pushing calm into the connection. He visualized a river, steady and still, swallowing the chaos bit by bit.

The esper let out a strangled sob, his aura flaring one last time before slowly dimming—settling into something quiet. Contained.

He collapsed forward. Moondae caught him, guiding him gently to the ground.

“That’s one,” he muttered to himself, chest heaving.

Then another cry tore through the air.

A woman—another esper, this time with burns across her arms—was trying to hold her ground against another wave of unstable energy. Her guide was unconscious behind her, blood dripping from his nose and ears.

Moondae moved again.

It was endless. He barely had time to think between each surge of guiding. Each connection pulled more out of him. His vision blurred. His legs trembled. But he kept moving.

One esper.

Then another.

And another.

His aura flickered, fraying at the edges—but he refused to stop. Not while there were people still standing. Not while he could still feel his heartbeat.

By the time the reinforcement units arrived—official guild guides in full uniform—Moondae was crouched against the base of a scorched tree, one hand still gripping the wrist of an unconscious esper, steadying his breath, his own aura dim and ragged.

“Is that… a volunteer?” one of the guild staff muttered in disbelief.

Another crouched beside him. “Hey. You okay?”

Moondae blinked up at them, sweat rolling down his neck. He nodded slowly, voice barely a whisper.

“I’m fine… There are still some at the north side… unlinked.”

He let go of the esper’s wrist, his fingers trembling. The weight of the night was starting to crash over him—too many links, too much raw emotion funneled through his body.

His system window flickered faintly in the corner of his vision:

 [Passive Skill Activated: Emotional Buffer - 34% capacity remaining]

The only reason he was still conscious.

Moondae took a shaky breath, quietly grateful. Good timing for a reward...

But before he could say anything else, blackness crept in from the edges of his vision. The ground tipped.

I hope they’re safe, was his final thought before the world faded into silence.

Chapter Text

The chaos was deafening.

Screams from civilians. The sound of explosions as monsters were taken down—or worse, broke through defenses. The sharp, shrill static of communication devices. It all clashed in a terrible orchestra of panic.

Bae Sejin had just arrived through the emergency portal opened for official reinforcements. He immediately spotted a collapsed Esper not far from him, but before he could move, a frantic voice shouted over the noise.

"Over here! Someone—please! We need a guide now!"

His head snapped toward the source: a group of guides surrounding someone on the ground.

Without hesitation, Sejin turned away from the fallen Esper and sprinted toward the shouting guides. His instincts told him this was more urgent—and if they were requesting a guide in the middle of all this, it had to be serious.

As he reached them, the group quickly parted to let him through.

A young man lay in the center, body trembling violently, his breathing erratic. His face was pale—unnaturally so—and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides. The others were clearly doing their best to help, but their panic was palpable.

“He’s just a volunteer,” one of them explained quickly. “He—he’s been stabilizing Espers non-stop since the gate went unstable. At least four B-class. We didn’t even realize—until he just collapsed.”

“He’s in aura depletion,” Sejin muttered, already kneeling beside the boy. “No wonder he’s convulsing.”

His gloved hand reached out and gently touched the young guide’s temple, the other settling just over his chest—close enough to sense the fractured, chaotic flow of his core. His own aura pulsed forward in soft waves, gentle and steady.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the surrounding noise. “You did well. I’ve got you now.”

The guide’s body jerked again, as if resisting even that kindness, but Sejin didn’t flinch. His expression stayed calm, reassuring. He let the warmth of his aura surround the boy’s like a blanket, absorbing the sharp spikes of pain, filtering them through himself.

The boy—Moondae, someone muttered—was still convulsing, but the spasms were starting to slow.

Sejin glanced up at the others.

“I’ll handle him. You—go. Help the others. The Espers out there still need you.”

They hesitated, but something in Sejin’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a request.

Reluctantly, the guides nodded and rushed back into the battlefield, leaving Sejin alone with the unconscious guide.

“You’re stupid,” Sejin murmured softly, brushing sweat-soaked hair away from Moondae’s forehead. “But brave. Dammit.”

He stayed there, kneeling beside the boy, shielding his fragile form with his own aura while chaos continued to rage around them.

The scent of antiseptic hit first.

Moondae stirred beneath the stiff hospital blanket, lashes fluttering. His body ached—not from any physical wounds, but from the brutal exhaustion of drained energy and too many unstable connections. For a moment, he stayed still, letting the beeping of machines and the dull murmur of outside voices ground him.

Then he blinked his eyes open.

White ceiling. White walls. A drip attached to his arm.

He was alive.

"You’re awake."

A voice—smooth and calm, but with a sharpness Moondae couldn’t ignore—spoke from the armchair near his bed.

Moondae turned his head slightly.

Sitting there was a man probably a few years older than him. His hair was neatly styled, his posture relaxed but alert, dressed in a guide’s standard jacket with the Seoul Guild patch visible on one sleeve. Under the room’s filtered light, his gaze appeared almost too clear—intelligent and faintly amused.

"You were out for nearly twelve hours. I was starting to think I’d have to write your will."

Moondae’s throat was dry. "Water…?"

The man immediately stood, poured water from a nearby pitcher, and helped him sit up slightly before handing the glass over.

"Thanks," Moondae rasped, sipping slowly. "...Who are you?"

"Bae Sejin. Level A guide, stationed under the Seoul Guild’s emergency response team." He tilted his head. "I was the one who stabilized your link in the ambulance. You were crashing hard."

Moondae blinked. He remembered hands pressing against his back, someone speaking softly to him through the haze, grounding him. That was him…?

"Thanks for that."

Sejin offered a faint smile. "You’re welcome. But I didn’t stay just for gratitude. You’ve become... quite popular overnight, you know."

Moondae frowned. "What?"

"After what you did at the gate, word spread fast. An unregistered guide stabilizing multiple B-class espers? Without collapsing instantly?" He let out a small, dry chuckle. "They’re swarming like vultures."

Moondae groaned softly, shifting his head back to the pillow. "That’s annoying."

"Extremely. That’s why I’ve been here the whole time. Not for your charming personality, unfortunately." He smirked. "I’ve been turning away at least six different recruiters while you were unconscious. Including someone from the central agency, and a private guild trying to offer a signing bonus on the spot."

"...You didn’t let them in?"

"I told them you’re under medical observation, and any unauthorized solicitation would be reported as harassment." Sejin leaned back in the chair. "Technically, you’re not signed to any guild, but you are registered with the Seoul Community Center. That gives you a buffer."

Moondae let out a breath. "Thank you."

Sejin studied him in silence for a few seconds, then added, "You’re lucky. Most people don’t get to wake up from what you did. That kind of output is beyond even what some A-ranks can handle."

"...I didn’t really think about it," Moondae murmured, eyes flicking toward the window. The city was faintly visible through the blinds, lights glittering against dusk.

"No. I think you did," Sejin replied quietly. "And that’s why I stayed."

.... 

The soft beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound that filled the quiet hospital room. The sterile scent, the pale ceiling tiles, and the gentle hum of the ventilation system blurred together as Moondae slowly blinked himself awake for the second time.

The faint light filtering through the curtains told him it was already morning—or perhaps early afternoon. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep since the last time he’d opened his eyes, shared a few groggy words with the man who saved him, then drifted back under.

Now, he was more aware. His fingers twitched against the sheets. His body ached, but less like it had been broken and more like it had been emptied.

And then, right as his gaze began to focus on the ceiling tiles, he heard it.

Ding.

[System Notification: Gate Clearance Confirmed]

[Total Points Earned: 4,280]

[Reputation Increased – Community Center Seoul: Trusted]

[Status Updated: Level Up Achieved – Current Level: 20]

 

[WARNING: Advancement Blocked]

[Notice: Level Threshold Reached – Ascension Trial Required to Continue Leveling]

 

[New Side Quest Unlocked: Trial of the Spirit (Optional)]

[Note: Quest can be initiated at any time. Proceed with caution.]

Moondae exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the translucent blue panel that only he could see. His level had risen dramatically—he knew it would, after the chaos he'd endured—but he hadn’t expected to hit a threshold already. Just like in those old RPG games, hitting certain milestones meant facing a test. Only this time, failing wasn’t just losing experience or starting over.

Failure could mean death.

Before he could dwell on the implications, the door creaked open.

In walked Sejin, balancing a tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a folded napkin tucked neatly beside it. He placed it on the rolling table with an almost elegant precision before casually dragging the chair closer to Moondae’s bed.

“You’re awake again,” he noted, voice low but unmistakably relieved.

Moondae slowly turned his head toward him, ignoring the slight pull in his muscles. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Barely.”

Sejin raised an eyebrow. “You should eat. I asked them to leave out the spice.”

Moondae didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the bowl, then drifted toward the IV in his arm, and finally back to Sejin.

“...Do you think I can go back to my motel tomorrow morning?” he asked, the words soft but clear.

Instead of a verbal answer, Moondae received a gentle jab to his side—right near the bruised ribs.

“Agh—!” He coughed hard, twisting slightly in pain. “What the hell—?!”

Sejin, unbothered and entirely too calm for someone who just assaulted an injured man, responded while adjusting the tray.

“If it still hurts, then you’re not going anywhere.”

He leaned back in the chair, one arm slung over the side.

“The healer guides are overwhelmed this week. You’re lucky you even got a proper bed. With no agency to prioritize you, you’re under general care only. Translation: you heal like a normal human.”

Moondae frowned. “That sounds… needlessly cruel.”

Sejin smirked. “Cruel would be letting you leave just to pass out in a bus stop somewhere.”

Moondae muttered something under his breath and glanced toward the corner of the room, letting the silence settle again.

Sejin didn’t push him to talk more. He merely opened the soup container and offered the spoon. “You’ll need your strength. Especially if you plan to survive another ridiculous stunt.”

Moondae didn’t answer right away. His mind was already elsewhere—on the system window that still hovered in his peripheral vision. On the side quest that awaited him. On how very alone it felt, knowing no one else could see what he saw or feel the weight of the things he carried.

Still, as the spoon touched his hand, and Sejin gave him a look that hovered somewhere between exasperation and concern, something loosened in his chest.

Eventually, Bae Sejin helped Moondae sit upright against the headboard, carefully adjusting the pillows behind his back before sliding the meal tray closer. Moondae, still visibly fatigued, accepted the gesture with a faint nod and began eating in small, slow bites.

The room remained quiet, filled only with the soft clinking of the spoon against the bowl and the distant hum of the hospital outside. Sejin settled into the chair again, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested he was watching over Moondae without wanting to admit it.

Then came the knock.

Both of them turned their heads toward the door, surprised by the sudden break in the silence. Sejin rose to his feet without a word and made his way over, fingers brushing lightly against the doorknob before he opened it.

Waiting outside were four people.

His gaze swept over the unfamiliar faces first—two tall men exuding the kind of contained pressure only high-ranking espers could generate, and a woman with short, curled hair and a worried expression etched into every line of her face.

And then there was one person Sejin did recognize.

“Director Han,” Sejin greeted, voice low but composed.

The older man gave a small nod in return, stepping aside to let the woman at the front of the group speak.

“Is Moondae awake?” she asked quickly, her tone clipped with anxiety. “He doesn’t have any family, so I just... I wanted to be here, at least. I’m his employer—he works at my café. My name’s Choi Jin.”

Sejin’s eyes flickered toward Moondae for a moment, then back to the woman. He took in the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands twisted together in front of her coat, and made a quiet decision.

“They’re here to visit,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. Then, stepping aside, he opened the door wider and gestured for them to come in. “Alright. But please be mindful.”

His gaze swept over all four of them with a quiet firmness as he spoke.

“He’s only just regained consciousness. He was out for over twelve hours, woke up briefly, then passed out again. He only opened his eyes a few minutes ago.”

His voice dropped slightly, but there was a protective edge beneath the calm exterior.

“So please—understand the situation. Let him rest if he needs it.”

With that, Sejin gave Moondae one last glance and quietly excused himself from the room, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Moondae alone with his unexpected visitors.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional clatter of forks against porcelain. Park Moondae, still propped up against the pillows, stared in quiet disbelief at the two visitors sitting by his bedside.

Why are they even here? Aren’t they busy?

As if reading his mind, Lee Sejin broke into a grin and threw an arm around the shoulders of the platinum-blonde esper beside him.

“We’re only staying for a bit,” Sejin declared, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Though… Sejinie wishes he could stay longer. Just to make sure our precious Moondae is really okay.”

His exaggerated tone earned him an unimpressed glance from Ahyeon, who gently shrugged out of the half-hug.

“Cut it out,” Ahyeon muttered, then turned his attention back to Moondae with a much softer voice. “How are you feeling?”

Moondae gave a faint smile, accepting the small plate of cake from Choi Jin without much ceremony.

“I’m getting better. Just need some time to recover, that’s all.”

He dipped his fork into the cake, tasting a familiar flavor. Raspberry. Choi Jin had brought his favorite. Still, guilt settled lightly in his chest.

“I’m sorry, noona,” he said quietly, eyes cast downward. “I won’t be able to work for a while.”

Choi Jin reached over without hesitation, brushing aside the messy strands of hair falling over his forehead.

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about,” she said gently. “I’m just glad you’re awake.”

She leaned closer, inspecting his face with exaggerated care. “Aigoo… look at that pale little face. You used to be way cuter when you were healthy, you know?”

Moondae didn’t respond. He didn’t flinch either, even as her hand lightly patted his cheek. He simply chewed slowly, trying not to seem too flustered.

Across the room, Director Han finally spoke. His tone, as always, was calm and reserved—but there was an unmistakable sincerity in his words.

“We’re arranging for a guide healer to assist in your recovery,” he said. “It’s the least we can do, considering the circumstances.”

Moondae lowered his fork. “I truly appreciate the effort, sir.”

He meant it. As much as he wanted to play it off and insist he was fine… he wasn’t. He needed to recover quickly. His daily missions weren’t going to pause for his injuries. And more importantly, the system had issued a trial for ascending past Level 20. He hadn’t even touched his main quest yet—and who knew what kind of punishment the system would hand out if he dragged his feet?

He needed to heal. Fast.

So even if it felt uncomfortable to rely on others… this once, he hoped Director Han would follow through.

“Thank you,” he said again, this time more firmly.

Ahyeon tilted his head, watching him with a thoughtful look, while Sejin stole another bite of cake without shame.

“Is this raspberry?” he asked, ignoring the growing tension in the room entirely. “Tastes expensive. I should’ve been the one hospitalized.”

“Shut up,” Ahyeon muttered again, but the edge in his voice was missing now.

Choi Jin just shook her head fondly. And for a brief moment, despite the aches in his body and the silent pressure of the system hanging over him, Moondae let himself relax.

Chapter Text

It was just past noon when the door to Moondae’s hospital room opened again.

He had expected another nurse, maybe Ahyeon returning with more fruit or Sejin sneaking back in for leftover cake. But instead, it was Director Han—followed by a woman in a sleek, pale-blue suit, her presence so calm it felt almost unnatural.

Her gaze flicked over to Moondae the moment she stepped inside, sharp yet unreadable.

“I’ve brought someone who can help,” Director Han announced, stepping aside to allow the woman through. “This is Kim Yura. She’s a certified Guide Healer, currently assigned to the HQ team.”

Moondae immediately sat up a little straighter. His side ached in protest.

Yura walked closer, standing beside the bed without speaking. She was elegant in a detached way—like she’d healed hundreds before him and would heal hundreds more after. Her hands, gloved in a soft white material that shimmered slightly under the fluorescent light, hovered in the air before her.

“I’ve been given clearance to accelerate your recovery,” she said finally. “If you’re ready, we can begin.”

Moondae nodded. “Please.”

She didn’t need physical contact. Instead, a soft, golden hue began to radiate from her hands, warm like morning sunlight. It passed through his body in waves, settling into the broken places inside him—fractures knitting together, torn muscles mending, bruises fading as though time itself was speeding up.

It wasn’t painless. Moondae grit his teeth as a sharp, burning sensation rippled through his ribs. But it didn’t last long. Seconds later, his body sagged back against the pillows, and he realized he was breathing deeper, easier.

Kim Yura stepped back and nodded once, professionally.

“You’ll still need rest. Healing magic isn’t perfect. But your physical wounds are resolved.”

“Thank you,” Moondae said, genuinely.

Director Han gave a tight nod. “I wish I could stay, but I’m being called in for another situation.” His gaze lingered on Moondae for a second longer. “I expect to see you back on your feet soon. But don’t rush it.”

And with that, both he and Yura exited—leaving the room quiet once more.

Except it wasn’t entirely empty.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” Moondae said, turning his head slightly toward the figure by the windowsill.

Bae Sejin was lounging in one of the guest chairs, feet propped on the frame, an untouched slice of cake on his lap.

“I’m your emotional support Guide now,” Sejin replied, deadpan. “You’re stuck with me until you can walk without wheezing like a seventy-year-old man.”

Moondae scoffed, though the motion still tugged faintly at his healing ribs. “You’re not even assigned to me.”

Sejin shrugged. “True. But I was bored. And you make funny faces when you're trying not to complain about the pain.”

There was silence for a moment. Peaceful, almost. Outside, the clouds drifted past the window, pale and slow.

“…Thanks for staying,” Moondae said eventually, voice low.

Sejin looked over, and for once, the usual teasing grin was gone.

“You did good,” he said simply. “You deserve to rest a little.”

Moondae didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to.

For the first time in days, he let himself close his eyes without the pressure of a looming mission timer, without the burn of pain in his chest, and without the weight of the system pulling at the back of his mind.

He just let himself breathe.

The room was unusually quiet when Park Moondae woke up.

Sunlight filtered through the narrow blinds, casting thin golden bars across the white bed sheet. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the soft light and the stillness around him. There was no soft hum of conversation, no quiet laughter from Sejin, no nurse entering with medication.

It was just him.

His gaze lowered and caught sight of a folded note on the table beside his bed—crisp, written on hospital notepad paper, the edges slightly creased. He reached out and picked it up.

The handwriting was neat but rushed, like someone trying to be casual about leaving even if they didn’t want to.

 Moondae,

Got called out for a mission. Can’t skip it unless I want to write apology essays for the next week.

You’ll be fine, yeah? Don’t forget to eat. And don’t go around fighting monsters two days after waking up.

Take care.

 

—Bae Sejin

 

Moondae exhaled softly, the corner of his lips twitching. 

He folded the note again and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

Within minutes, he had changed into his usual black hoodie and jeans—nothing that screamed “recently hospitalized”—and slung his bag over his shoulder. His belongings were few: just his phone, a power bank, and an energy bar he’d saved from earlier.

He checked the time. Then checked the map.

There was a place not far from Seoul—Cheongpyeong, in the northern part of Gyeonggi Province. A quiet region, known more for its nature than its gates. But according to the system notification from a few days ago, that location was marked as the entry point to a newly-activated field zone:

[ Trial Ground – Spirit Tier ]

“Only the soul may pass. Only the soul may rise.”

Level Requirement: 20+

It was the perfect timing.

A bus bound for Cheongpyeong was already pulling into a stop two blocks from the hospital.

Moondae tightened his bag straps and walked out of the building with a quiet step. No one stopped him. No one noticed him. It was as if he had never been there.

As he sat by the bus window, the familiar notification flickered across his vision:

[User Information]

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: Guide

 

Level: 20

Physical Strength: 3

Mental Strength: 11

Agility: 2

Stamina: 8

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: Exercise or die!

Side Quest: Trial of the Spirit

[Claimable Rewards]

◆ Sensory Dampening Charm (1-time use)

◆ Emotional Buffer

Moondae leaned his forehead against the window, feeling the cool glass against his skin.

So far, he had managed to survive with strategy and caution—choosing his battles wisely, minimizing risks. But if this trial was anything like the Gate incident… he would need more than caution.

He would need resolve.

Outside, the bus hummed softly as it left the city behind, rolling past tree-lined roads and quiet rural intersections. Cheongpyeong was still a few hours away.

He had time to prepare.

Time to think.

Time to remind himself why he was doing all this.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of sleep press lightly at the back of his mind. But he didn’t let it take him. Not yet.

After all, his next trial was waiting—and Park Moondae intended to pass it.

By the time the bus arrived at the Cheongpyeong terminal, the sun had begun its descent behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the quiet streets. The air was crisp with the scent of pine, and the town was peacefully still—almost too still.

Park Moondae stepped off the bus with nothing but the hum of his phone in his pocket and the light ache of anticipation in his chest.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, a familiar flicker appeared in front of his eyes:

[Navigation Activated – Trial of the Spirit]

Estimated Distance: 2.6 km

Estimated Time: 38 minutes (walking)

Guidance Path Displayed – Follow the blue line

A glowing blue line hovered faintly along the ground in front of him, visible only through the overlay of his system interface. It curved through narrow streets, passed closed shops and quiet alleyways, before veering toward the edge of the town—toward the forest.

Moondae adjusted his backpack and followed without hesitation.

The further he walked, the older the scenery became. Cobblestones replaced pavement. Abandoned buildings loomed quietly between trees, their wooden structures worn down by years of weather and time. Birds scattered overhead, disturbed by his presence.

Then he saw it.

A building, nestled behind a collapsed shrine gate and barely visible through overgrown vines. It was a traditional Korean structure—wooden beams, tiled roof, and a sense of stillness so heavy it pressed on his lungs. It looked like it hadn’t been entered in decades.

But his system told him otherwise.

 

[You have arrived at the designated location.]

Initiate Trial of the Spirit?

→ Yes

→ No

He took a breath.

“...Yes.”

The moment his hand pushed open the creaking wooden door, the world tilted.

No, shifted.

A sharp sound, like wind tearing through silk, cut through the air. The shadows twisted, the decayed walls peeled back—and suddenly, Moondae wasn’t standing in a ruin anymore.

He was standing inside a grand palace.

Marble floors gleamed beneath his feet, impossibly clean. Gold-edged pillars rose toward a high ceiling that glittered like starlight. Drapes of crimson and silver fluttered without wind. And at the far end, where a throne would be, was a floating display of choices:

[Prepare for the Trial of the Spirit – Advanced Class]

Select Your Armament

 

→ Sword

→ Bow

→ Staff

→ Pistol (Dual)

→ Gauntlets

→ None

Moondae didn’t even pause.

He stepped forward and chose:

→ Pistol (Dual)

The system responded instantly.

From thin air, two sleek black pistols materialized in front of him. They hovered for a moment before landing smoothly in his hands—balanced, comfortable, familiar. They weren’t heavy. They felt just right.

Immediately, more prompts appeared.

[Ammunition Crate x4 Obtained]

Stored in system inventory. Access when needed.

 

[Weapon Bond Established]

Enhanced compatibility: Mental Strength boost recognized.

Precision increased by 7% due to stat synergy.

Moondae holstered the pistols at his sides and glanced around.

The palace halls were silent, yet he could feel it—the pressure of something watching, waiting. This place wasn’t a sanctuary.

It was a test chamber dressed as royalty.

And he had just taken the first step.

Park Moondae sat on the cool marble floor of the palace-like dimension, the twin pistols resting beside him and the heavy silence pressing against his skin. The ornate ceilings above him glistened faintly with floating symbols—unreadable, alien—yet their presence felt…watchful.

He exhaled deeply.

 [Daily Mission: Exercise or Die!]

Status: 15,000 steps – Complete

Remaining: Push-ups (50), Sit-ups (50)

Reward: Full Recovery (Unclaimed)

Moondae rolled his shoulders. "Might as well get it done."

He moved into position, his palms flat against the polished floor as he began the push-ups. His arms trembled slightly—not from weakness, but from tension. The air here felt heavier than in reality. Time ticked slow, and every breath was a touch more shallow than it should be.

"Thirty… thirty-five… forty-two..."

He finished the set with a grunt and immediately shifted to sit-ups, his movements sharp and practiced, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. As he counted the last one, the familiar tone of the system echoed in his head.

 [Daily Mission Complete.]

Reward: Full Recovery has been added to Inventory. Use at any time.]

Moondae stood and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his breath beginning to steady.

But he didn’t claim it. Not yet.

"If I use this now, it’s wasted," he thought. "Better to hold on… until I really need it."

He slid one of the pistols into its holster, then the other, checking the backup ammo clipped neatly to the inside of his hoodie. Though the weapons were summoned by the system, they had weight—real weight—and he could feel the burn of cold steel in his hands.

The moment he fastened the last strap, the air shifted.

 [Initiating Trial 1: Physical Endurance]

Description: Eliminate all hostile entities.

Target: 50

Objective: Survive.

Without warning, the marble floor beneath him rippled like disturbed water. Shadows burst forth from the glossy surface, morphing into creatures—some with sharp, insectoid limbs; others with grotesque, bulbous forms and claws that clicked hungrily against the ground.

Each of them radiated an aura of violence.

Moondae raised his pistols.

The creatures didn’t wait.

They lunged.

The first wave was fast—too fast. Moondae shot twice, both bullets hitting squarely in the head of a sprinting beast. It collapsed with a bone-cracking shriek, vanishing into dust before it even hit the floor.

But more followed.

Ten… fifteen… claws scraped his shoulder as he dove into a roll. He retaliated with a shot to its torso, then ducked behind a crumbled stone column that hadn’t been there before. The palace was shifting, mutating with the fight.

It was surreal—like a dream layered with danger.

"Fifty monsters… This is absurd," he thought, catching his breath. "But this isn’t just a fight. It’s a test."

From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement—one of the creatures, unlike the others, cloaked in writhing darkness. It leapt, fangs bared. Moondae ducked and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Out.

He yanked the next ammo clip and slammed it in, not missing a beat. His stamina was wearing thin now, his body still recovering from the injuries he had sustained back in the real world.

Still… he kept moving.

Even as pain sparked through his muscles, even as his vision blurred from a near-miss swipe across his temple—he didn’t stop.

[HP: 38%]

[Stamina: 17%]

He gritted his teeth.

"Not yet."

Then, as he was cornered by three snarling beasts closing in from all sides, his hand instinctively hovered over the system screen.

 [Use Recovery Reward? Y/N]

His breath caught. He made his choice.

 Yes

A wave of warmth enveloped him. His wounds closed in an instant. His lungs drew a full breath as if they were new again. Stamina, energy, clarity—all restored.

Moondae opened his eyes, now burning with renewed focus.

"Let’s finish this."

He surged forward.

With a deep inhale, Park Moondae felt life return to every limb—lightning pulsing through his veins. The world sharpened. The low growls of the beasts no longer echoed like doom; now they sounded like challenges waiting to be overcome.

He didn’t waste a second.

Rolling to his right, he dodged the claw of the first creature and fired twice—once in the chest, once in the skull. It exploded in a cloud of ash. Moondae spun on his heel, the coat around him flaring like smoke, and unloaded three more bullets into the second monster’s charging legs, sending it crashing down before finishing it with a headshot.

The third lunged.

Too close.

Moondae dropped backward and braced both guns under its jaw.

Click-click.

Two shots.

Black blood sprayed into the air, the creature crumpling above him before disintegrating into nothing.

 [Enemies Eliminated: 23/50]

[HP: 98%]

[Stamina: 92%]

The stone palace cracked again.

A roar erupted from deeper within. Something larger—stronger—had entered the arena.

Moondae steadied himself, eyes narrowing.

The next wave wasn’t a horde—it was a battalion.

Beasts began to coordinate. He saw winged shadows darting overhead, hurling dark projectiles toward him. Smaller, faster creatures skittered along the floor, trying to bait his shots. Moondae darted behind one of the standing pillars, then leapt out unexpectedly to pick off two airborne threats mid-glide.

He reloaded.

He ran.

He slid beneath the snapping jaws of a hound-like creature before flipping onto its back and firing straight through its spine.

 [Enemies Eliminated: 34/50]

[Stamina: 62%]

Moondae’s breathing grew heavier now. His shirt clung to his back. The palace floor was littered with cracks and shadowy remnants. Each step was harder. Each dodge, just slightly slower.

And yet, he kept going.

By the time he reached the final five, his bullets were down to one clip. Sweat stung his eyes. But his gaze never faltered.

The last enemies approached slowly—massive, horned, and burning with red light in their chests. Moondae stood still. Calm. Silent.

They charged.

He did too.

One bullet to the chest—no effect.

He dove between the legs, turned, and aimed for the glowing core.

Boom.

Dust.

He flipped backward as two others clawed for his throat. One scratched the side of his coat—but not his skin. He twisted, raised both arms, and fired his final two shots—one for each monster’s eye.

Boom. Boom.

The last one howled. Bigger. Heavier. Too strong to shoot down easily.

Moondae ducked behind a fallen statue and reached down—picked up a jagged piece of stone with both hands.

As the beast approached, Moondae roared and slammed the stone into the creature’s knee, then its side, then—he jumped—and brought the shard crashing into the glowing light in the beast’s chest.

CRACK.

The beast wailed as it shattered into black mist, and silence fell once again.

Only Moondae remained, panting, surrounded by stillness and ashes.

 [Trial of Physical Strength: Complete.]

[HP has increased by 30% of base value.]

[Stamina stat has increased: 8 → 15.]

[Current Stamina: 15]

[Well done, Guide.]

The Trial of Spirit continues. Prepare for the second phase.]

Moondae collapsed onto one knee, exhaling. His whole body throbbed, but it was not the pain of failure. It was growth. Survival. Power.

And somewhere within the palace, the ground began to shift again—signaling the coming of the next trial.

Chapter Text

[Trial of the Spirit – Phase One: The Labyrinth]

The corridor twisted behind him—silent, endless—and then vanished.

A pulse beat through the space, like the echo of a giant heartbeat, and suddenly Park Moondae stood somewhere else.

The mist around him parted like curtains revealing a stage, and in its place, a vivid illusion formed.

A quiet road under gray skies.

A large charter bus—worn, but filled with warmth and chatter—rolled to a slow stop. The words RYU PUNGSAN – FAMILY TOUR were painted on its side. It was winter. Tiny flecks of snow danced in the air, caught in the scarves and coats of uncles, aunts, cousins. Dozens of relatives were bustling out of the vehicle, laughing, carrying bags and gifts.

Park Moondae took a step forward unconsciously. The ground beneath him was solid—too solid for a dream.

Then, he saw them.

A man with slightly stooped shoulders and a gentle smile.

A woman laughing as she scolded someone off-screen for forgetting to zip up their jacket.

Moondae’s breath caught in his throat.

"Gunwoo... where is he again? Still at school?" the woman asked.

"Final exams. He said he couldn’t come. You know how seriously he takes those," the man replied, and rubbed his arms to warm himself. "It’s cold."

Their voices. Their warmth.

A sharp ache pierced through Moondae’s chest.

He didn’t remember this.

But he knew.

Somehow, deep in the marrow of his bones, he knew who they were. Not Park Moondae’s parents. No.

Ryu Gunwoo’s.

The illusion shifted.

Later that evening, the bus had broken down near a remote rest area in the outskirts of Gangwon-do. The snow was heavier. An uncle, injured from the earlier minor accident, had to be taken to the nearest clinic. The rest of the family was advised to stay the night in the rest building.

The rest stop was old. A sprawling two-story wooden facility meant to house travelers in emergency. Cozy fireplaces, vintage tiles, a stack of board games no one had touched in decades.

And then—

The fire.

It didn’t begin with an explosion. It began with a slow hiss. A glow in the dark. An electric socket near the kitchen. Forgotten. Faulty. Hungry.

By the time anyone noticed, the fire had already reached the stairwell.

People screamed. Children were carried. Some got out.

But two people didn’t.

The man and woman from earlier.

Ryu Gunwoo’s parents.

Trapped on the second floor while helping another aunt to find her child.

Park Moondae stood there, in the illusion, but not a part of it.

Flames licked the walls around him, devouring wood and memory. Smoke curled like fingers through the ceiling. He couldn’t breathe—but he was still breathing.

And then—

"MOM!"

He screamed, running toward them through the fire.

His hands reached out—too slow. The stairwell collapsed in a cascade of red-orange heat and black ash. His fingers passed through them. Like mist. Like ghosts.

They didn’t hear him.

No one did.

He fell to his knees as the flames swallowed everything.

[System Warning: Illusion Stability Breached – Subject Memory Integration Imminent.]

He clutched his chest.

This… wasn’t just an illusion. It was something he had never seen.

But he always knew.

The guilt that followed him like a shadow ever since that day.

He wasn’t with them because of school exams.

And for years, deep down, he had wondered—

'If I had gone with them… Would I have died, too?'

"Would that have been better?"

The illusion held nothing back.

Not even the sounds of their final breath.

Not even the boy’s own cries—Ryu Gunwoo’s cries—echoing through time, begging for a second chance.

The air cracked with fire.

Moondae fell to his knees as screams echoed in the burning rest area—his screams. His nails scraped against the floor as he crawled forward, desperately trying to reach the two blurry figures trapped beyond the collapsing beam.

"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry... I'm sorry.. “

He knew.

He knew this wasn’t real.

And yet—it hurt like it was.

The shadows behind the flames were coughing, crying, clawing at the wall for an exit that would never open. It was a memory. It was someone else’s past. But it felt like his. It was his.

 [System Warning: Stress Level 63%]

 

[System Warning: Stress Level 68%]

 

[Cognitive Overload Detected — Initiating Stabilization Protocol...]

 

His body shook. A pounding rang in his head. Each breath he took was like inhaling fire. He screamed again and again, until his voice cracked, until he could taste blood.

[System Notice: Escape requirement — Reduce Stress Level under 60%.]

 

[Stabilize emotional response. Current Level: 76%.]

 

“I can’t—! I can’t do this—fuck all of this shit” Moondae shouted, tears streaming down his face, body convulsing as grief and guilt closed in like a noose.

'I wasn’t even there. I wasn’t even there!'

His fists slammed against the floor.

"If I had just been on that bus... If I’d just gone with them—maybe I wouldn’t be the one left behind"

[Stress Level: 82%. Warning: Trial Failure Imminent.]

His ears started ringing. His sight blurred into double. He couldn’t even think straight anymore. His limbs refused to move. His chest felt too tight.

But somewhere in the chaos—a line of system text flickered at the edge of his vision.

[Manual Override: Breathe.]

"...What?"

 [Manual Override: Inhale. 4 seconds.]

 

[Manual Override: Hold. 7 seconds.]

 

[Manual Override: Exhale. 8 seconds.]

The instructions repeated again. Again. Again.

With a scream lodged in his throat, Moondae forced his body upright. His lungs burned as he sucked in air like a drowning man. His arms trembled as he clutched his own wrist—forcing stillness onto himself.

“One.”

He counted aloud.

“Two. Three. Four—huff—Seven. Eight.”

Another breath.

He repeated it.

Again. Again.

 [Stress Level: 81% → 79% → 76%...]

“I’m alive,” he rasped, tears still flowing. “I’m alive.”

"I can't bring them back. I can't change it."

"But if I lose myself here—then what did they even die for?"

[Stress Level: 71% → 68% → 64%...]

The fire still raged. The rest area still burned. The illusion didn’t vanish.

But Moondae’s breath no longer faltered.

His fingers clenched with bloodied nails against his arm, nails digging in to keep his mind anchored.

“I’ll carry it,” he whispered, barely audible. “Even if it breaks me—I’ll carry it. I won't forget. I won't run.”

And then—he stood.

Unsteady. Barely holding together. But still standing.

 [Stress Level: 59%.]

[System Notice: Phase 1 Complete.]

[Manual Override Acknowledged. Emotional Fortitude Registered.]

[‘Mental Resistance’ Stat Increased.]

 

[Title Acquired: Survivor of Grief.]

The fire paused.

The burning building flickered—then disintegrated into dust.

What remained was a black corridor with a narrow door at the end, glowing faintly.

 [Access to Phase 2: Unlocked.]

Moondae exhaled once more—loud, ragged, trembling.

Then he wiped his face, straightened his back, and walked forward.

[TRIAL: MENTAL STRENGTH – PHASE TWO: THE MIRROR]

The iron door groaned open, its hinges shrieking as if protesting his passage.

Park Moondae stepped inside, his jaw clenched, and let out a sharp breath laced with venom.

“Damn this system,” he spat. “Dragging me into one nightmare after another. What now?”

The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence fell.

He blinked, adjusting to the dim, cold light that seemed to seep from the very air. The room was... reflective. A perfect circle, surrounded on all sides by towering mirrors—tall enough to reach just above his head, arranged like sentinels in a twisted, symmetrical prison.

At first, he only saw himself.

But then, the mirrors moved.

Not literally—they stood still. But inside them, the reflections twisted.

It was still him... and yet, it wasn’t.

One Park Moondae stared back at him, eyes wide in raw terror.

Another grinned manically, as if the world were nothing but a game.

One version sobbed uncontrollably.

Another sat with calm serenity, hands folded like a monk.

One pressed against the mirror with bloodied knuckles, mouthing silent screams.

Then—

A young man appeared.

Ryu Gunwoo.

Not Moondae. Not anymore.

Gunwoo at twenty-six—older, more mature, yet somehow hollow. There was pain behind his eyes, the kind that never fully healed.

And beside him—

A younger Gunwoo, maybe sixteen, sat on the floor in one mirror, hugging his knees to his chest. His expression was devoid of everything. No light. No despair. Just… empty.

Then they all began to speak.

Whispers. At first.

 “You’re not me.”

 

“You ran away.”

 

“Why do you get to live?”

 

“I wanted to die, and you took over instead.”

 

“Do you even remember what I worked for?”

 

“You’re a coward.”

 

“You left me behind.”

 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Give me back my life.”

“You’re nothing without me.”

 

“You don’t even belong here.”

The noise grew louder, overlapping, clashing in his ears like blades scraping against glass.

Moondae staggered, hands clamped over his ears. The mirrors glowed with an eerie light, each reflection more vivid than the last.

 [WARNING: STRESS LEVEL AT 54%]

He gritted his teeth.

“I didn’t ask for this…” he whispered.

 [STRESS LEVEL AT 57%]

His heart thudded violently in his chest. His vision blurred. His knees buckled slightly beneath him.

 “I tried so hard…” a reflection wept.

 

“And you just stole it.”

 

“What did you sacrifice?”

 

“You don’t deserve any of this.”

 [STRESS LEVEL AT 59%]

Almost there.

Moondae fell to his knees. His breathing ragged.

He wanted to scream, to shatter every single mirror with his fists.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he closed his eyes.

Tight.

Shut it out. Shut it all out.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because he had to survive.

“I don’t need to fight this,” he muttered. “Not like this.”

He let the voices slice through him like wind through leaves. He allowed the chaos to reign around him—his body trembling, his spirit fraying—but he kept his mind grounded.

He forced himself to breathe.

One breath.

Another.

And then—

[SYSTEM: MENTAL STRENGTH PHASE TWO – FIRST STAGE COMPLETE]

 

[STRESS LEVEL REDUCED TO 49%]

 

[DOOR UNLOCKED]

The air shifted. The whispers ceased like a curtain had dropped.

Moondae’s eyes snapped open.

He stood.

Without a word, without looking back, he ran.

His footsteps echoed harshly against the smooth floor, and though the mirrors trembled slightly as he passed them, he refused to glance over his shoulder. Every part of his being screamed to look—but he didn’t.

He had learned something vital:

Some wounds don’t heal by picking at them.

Some ghosts are best faced—not with confrontation, but with quiet, stubborn resolve to keep walking.

The next door awaited.

And so did his reflection.

The real one.

... 

The second door opened without a sound.

Park Moondae stepped through, muscles tense, expecting more illusions—more voices, more pain.

But this time… it was quiet.

The space was dark and wide, like a theater with no audience. A soft spotlight flickered on above the center of the room, casting a pale circle of light across the floor.

And in that circle stood someone.

Moondae froze.

It was him.

No—not park Moondae but Ryu Gunwoo.

The real one.

Twenty-six years old.

Wearing the same worn-out hoodie he always used when studying.

His eyes carried exhaustion so profound it looked permanent.

In one hand, he held a black pistol, finger steady on the trigger.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: FINAL PHASE – DEFEAT THE ORIGINAL SELF]

[WARNING: FAILURE TO COMPLETE THIS PHASE RESULTS IN MENTAL COLLAPSE]

Moondae's breath caught in his throat.

Ryu Gunwoo raised the pistol.

Bang—

Moondae barely dodged the first shot, throwing himself behind one of the broken columns scattered across the room. Sparks exploded off the marble as the bullet missed him by inches.

Another shot. Then another.

Gunwoo was relentless. Precise. Cold.

He didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t want to talk.

He wanted to kill.

“This is insane,” Moondae muttered, sliding low to the ground, breath heaving. “I’m supposed to kill myself?”

He peeked out.

Gunwoo was gone.

No footsteps. No breathing.

Moondae’s instincts flared.

He leapt sideways just in time—Gunwoo emerged from his blind spot and fired at point-blank range. Moondae twisted midair, kicking the pistol just enough to make the bullet graze past his side instead of hitting his heart.

Blood dripped.

Moondae hit the ground and rolled, summoning a dagger of light from his inventory. He hurled it toward Gunwoo.

Gunwoo deflected it with a calculated pivot, using a shield Moondae had kept hidden for emergency duels.

Of course he had it.

Everything Moondae had—Gunwoo had too.

Every strategy, every instinct. Mirrored.

“This is pointless,” Moondae hissed. “He is me.”

Gunwoo charged this time, blade in hand now, and the clash of metal cracked through the room.

Moondae parried—barely—and they locked eyes.

Gunwoo’s were glassy, but determined.

“You left me behind,” Gunwoo growled. “You moved on without me.”

Moondae bared his teeth. “I am you. I didn’t move on—I kept going because you couldn’t.”

The blades clashed again. Sparks flew. Each strike was matched.

Every feint was anticipated.

Every dodge countered.

Moondae was growing exhausted.

Thinking wasn’t working.

Gunwoo was reading him.

He needed to stop planning.

Stop analyzing.

He needed to act on instinct.

Gritting his teeth, Moondae threw his blade down.

Gunwoo blinked.

In that split-second, Moondae lunged—unarmed—grabbing Gunwoo’s wrist and slamming his head into the other’s nose. The pistol dropped.

They wrestled violently, fists slamming into flesh. No weapons. No tricks.

Just raw, animal determination.

Gunwoo tried to grab the gun again.

Moondae elbowed him in the jaw, sending him sprawling.

He reached the gun first.

He aimed.

His hands shook.

Gunwoo didn’t plead. Didn’t cry.

He just stared at Moondae.

Tired. Empty.

“Go on,” he rasped. “You already did it once. What’s the difference now?”

Moondae’s lips trembled.

He tightened his grip.

“No,” he whispered. “This time... I won’t kill you to survive. I’ll carry you.”

And then—

He pulled the trigger.

A blinding white flash swallowed the room.

 [SYSTEM: PHASE TWO COMPLETE – THE MIRROR]

[MENTAL STRENGTH INTEGRITY: STABILIZED]

[YOU MAY PROCEED TO THE NEXT TRIAL]

 

When the light faded, the room was empty.

Park Moondae stood alone. The pistol was gone. The pain in his side was gone.

Only silence remained.

And the knowledge that he hadn’t destroyed his past.

He had accepted it.

Chapter Text

When the third door clicked open, Moondae stepped in without hesitation. The sound of it locking behind him was almost immediate—sharp, metallic, final.

The world around him flickered like a loading screen—flat black replaced by rising red hues, then expanding into a bleak, scorched wasteland. The ground was cracked and uneven, resembling a battlefield long abandoned. Twisted steel, burned-out husks of vehicles, and the skeletons of collapsed structures surrounded him like forgotten corpses.

[Final Trial Initiated – Mental Strength: Phase Three]

Trial Classification: Guide Simulation – Combat Support and Psychological Stabilization Required.

Duration: 30 Minutes. Survival Mandatory.

Combat Restrictions: Active. You may not engage enemies directly.

Allied Unit Death = Immediate Failure.

A soft distortion shimmered a few meters ahead. Two figures began to materialize—half-formed silhouettes stabilizing into human shapes under glowing blue system lines.

 [Assigned Combat Unit 01: Kim Jihye – B-Class Esper]

— Ability: Enhanced Physicality (Close-range combat, dual knives)

— Mental Stability: 39% — Unsteady

---

[Assigned Combat Unit 02: Seo Minjae – B-Class Esper]

— Ability: Telekinetic Vector Field (Medium-range projection)

— Mental Stability: 38% — Fragile

Moondae’s gaze flickered over the data. Both espers were unknown to him—artificial, constructed by the system as part of the simulation. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was their function, and their risk.

A sharp pulse rippled through the sky.

 [Enemy Wave One Approaching – 00:14 seconds]

Target Species: Category D – High-speed Predators. Weakness: Cervical Tendon (Verified by Guide Experience).

No weapons. No powers. Just his knowledge, his mouth, and his presence.

He stepped forward once.

“You,” he said flatly to the girl—Jihye, dual blades sheathed at her sides. “Fast movers are drawn to the side you rotate toward. Counter it. Attack from the rear only.”

She blinked at him, tense, uncertain.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“Minjae,” he turned. The boy was already gripping his temples. “Don’t overload. Pulse three vectors at 45-degree spread. Five seconds between each burst. Do not channel continuously.”

“W-what if—”

“Stick to my rhythm,” Moondae cut him off. “You don’t need to win. You need to hold.”

[Wave One Engaged]

A chorus of screeches broke the silence as the monsters appeared—leaping from cracks in the scorched earth, sprinting on clawed limbs, moving like shadows on fire. Five of them—small, quick, and violent.

“Minjae.”

A pulsing wave of invisible pressure burst forward, slamming into two creatures mid-air and sending them crashing to the side.

“Now,” Moondae said.

Jihye lunged in, moving as instructed—behind the disoriented beasts—and drove her blades into their exposed spines. She moved with agility, but not control. Her stance was too sharp, her breathing shallow.

[ Jihye: Mental Stability – 39% → 42% ]

[ Minjae: Mental Stability – 38% → 36% ]

He stepped beside Minjae immediately, his hand pressing firmly against the boy’s shoulder.

[System Sync: Stabilization Touch — Active. Feedback Delivered.]

[ Minjae: 36% → 40% ]

 

Minjae’s rapid breaths slowed. He didn’t speak. Good.

The second wave struck faster than expected—twice the number, with a pair of aerial types screeching overhead. Jihye faltered, glancing skyward.

“They're baiting your focus,” Moondae said calmly. “Aerials won’t drop unless Minjae lands a field spike. Don’t look up. I’ll guide him.”

“B-but—”

“Trust your periphery.”

She obeyed, barely. Moondae raised his voice just slightly.

“Minjae. Vector rotation—elevate three meters. Split focus. Vertical-first.”

A flicker of blue energy whipped into the air. One winged beast crashed down. The other kept circling.

Moondae’s eyes tracked it silently.

“Stagger field—now.”

Minjae launched a rapid, nervous burst. It landed. The creature screamed and combusted mid-air.

 [Wave Two Neutralized]

Elapsed Time: 07:52

Current Stress Levels: Within Acceptable Range

Proceeding with Modified Difficulty Curve.

Then the ground shook.

The third wave didn’t emerge from cracks. It tore through the terrain—larger, heavier. Moondae recognized one of them instantly.

 [Category C+ – Mutation Variant]

Last Encountered: Trial – Physical Strength Phase]

Identified Weakness: Right Leg Joint → Leads to Spinal Exposure

 

“Jihye,” he said. “Go for the right knee. That angle exposes the back. One clean slice.”

“On it!”

“Minjae. Delay only. You won’t break through. Target arms—keep it off Jihye.”

They moved in concert. Not perfectly—but with increasing trust. Moondae watched everything. Stability bars, attack intervals, movement patterns.

Minjae’s fingers trembled as he fired off another psychic burst.

[ Minjae: 40% → 35% ]

Moondae reached out—no hesitation—and pressed his palm between Minjae’s shoulder blades.

“You’re fine.”

 [System Stabilization +5%]

Monsters fell. The air thickened with burning flesh and blood. Still, Moondae never raised his voice. Never barked. He was a constant force behind them.

—A guide, not a savior.

 [Elapsed Time: 18:37]

[High-pressure Wave Approaching — Class B Monster Confirmed]

A beast crawled out of the smoke—taller than the last, with armor plating over its entire front. Jihye cursed.

“We can’t pierce that—!”

“You don’t need to.”

Moondae’s tone remained even.

“Minjae. Disrupt its balance. Two fields, one at the knee, one at its side. It’ll rotate left.”

He turned to Jihye. “Circle clockwise. Attack after the turn. You’ll find the joint clean.”

They obeyed.

It worked.

The beast shrieked as its armor shifted, exposing the weak point for only three seconds—just enough.

Jihye’s blades found their mark.

 [Target Neutralized. Remaining Time: 05:26]

[All Units Alive. Psychological Integrity: Monitored]

 

Moondae didn’t let himself ease. He kept tracking. Reacting. Touching each of them when their stress spiked. Never comforting. Just stabilizing.

 [01:04…]

[00:29…]

[00:10…]

The last wave wasn’t a beast. It was nothing. A stalling wave. Silence. Psychological pressure. Designed to trigger instability in a moment of expectation.

Minjae flinched. “They’re not coming—what if this is—”

Moondae reached out. Rested his hand lightly on the boy’s wrist.

“You survived. Breathe.”

[Trial Completed]

[All Units Alive. No Overload Detected. Combat Efficiency: 96.7%]

[Evaluation: MENTAL STRENGTH – RANK A+]

 

The world dissolved in silence. The two espers flickered, breaking into fragments of light.

Moondae stood alone once again.

 [Guide Profile Logged. Future Synchronization with Live-Field Operations Possible.]

He adjusted his collar. Not a single drop of sweat on his face. No sense of achievement.

Just quiet satisfaction.

The moment the 30-minute mark passed, a deafening silence swallowed the battlefield whole.

The swirling monsters disintegrated into particles of light, melting into the red mist like embers caught in a slow wind. The illusionary esper pair, still breathing heavily but very much alive, stared at Park Moondae with expressions bordering on awe—and then, just like everything else, they vanished.

The world turned white.

Park Moondae staggered forward a step, blinking through the sudden shift. A familiar chill gripped the soles of his feet, and when the light finally dispersed, he found himself standing once again in the vast, ornate hall that resembled a palace.

Towering pillars stretched into the distance like frozen monoliths. The crystalline ceiling above refracted light in quiet brilliance. This place again—this illogical, majestic “waiting room” that existed solely within the system’s trials.

Before Moondae could breathe, the air shifted, vibrating with static energy. A cascade of holographic text shimmered into existence before him, golden and triumphant.

 [Trial: Advanced Spirit Tier – COMPLETE.]

 

Congratulations, User Park Moondae.

You have successfully passed all phases of the Advanced Trial of Physical and Mental Strength.

 

Integrating accumulated data…

 

Updating stats…

Another panel materialized with a familiar mechanical chime.

[User Information]

Name: Park Moondae (Ryu Gunwoo)

Age: 20

Title: C Class Guide (NEW!)

 

Level: 20

Physical Strength: 12

Mental Strength: 25

Agility: 15

Stamina: 20

 

Buff Active: Emotional Buffer

 

Main Quest: Let’s become an Official Guide!

Daily Mission: None

Side Quest: None

 

Accumulated Points: 4

 

Moondae’s eyes narrowed as he reviewed the changes. The new title—Guide. So the system had finally acknowledged his ability as a stabilizer, not just a fighter.

“Mental Strength twenty-five…” he murmured to himself, almost absently. “Not bad.”

His voice echoed softly in the empty palace, swallowed by the hush.

But before he could fully digest the updates, another notification appeared. This time, the text shimmered with a faint iridescence. It was different—less mechanical, almost reverent.

 [Final Reward: Buff  skill Unlocked – Records]

 

Records (Type: Passive/Active)

When activated, the user will no longer forget anything they have seen, heard, or felt, down to the smallest detail.

This applies to:

◆ Combat patterns

◆ Monster weaknesses

◆ Esper abilities

◆ Emotional responses

◆ Environmental structures

◆ Memory retention is total and permanent.

 

Warning: Overuse may cause emotional fatigue or insomnia.

Moondae stared at the floating panel for a long time. He hadn’t expected another reward, let alone one this… specific.

Total recall.

He clenched his fists slightly. A part of him instinctively recoiled at the idea of never forgetting—of remembering everything, including the pain, the screaming, the final shot between himself and Ryu Gunwoo.

But the part of him that had survived up to this point—the part forged by necessity, not comfort—recognized the value.

“I’ll use it,” he said quietly.

As soon as he spoke, a blue ring of light encircled his right wrist—almost like a bracelet. The new buff had manifested physically, sleek and unintrusive.

He reached out with his thoughts.

[Activate: Records]

A second passed. Then two. Then—click.

The world sharpened.

He could almost feel the difference. Every line on the stone walls. The faint whirring sound deep within the system’s projection. The lingering weight of the guide commands still echoing in his throat. His memory organized itself instantly, expanding like a multi-layered archive.

Every face. Every scream. Every swing of the blade. Every weakness in the monsters’ forms. Burned into him, as if engraved with fire.

Park Moondae exhaled slowly.

“Let’s make this useful.”

There was no dramatic fanfare. No flare of victory. Just a quiet acknowledgment from the system:

 [Buff “Records” is now Active.]

 

[You have become a C-Class Guide.]

 [You may now access official esper commands in battle.]

[Good luck, Park Moondae.]

 

The text blinked away.

He looked at his own hands—no tremor, no doubt. Just a pulse of tension steady in his chest, and a pressure behind his eyes.

A chuckle escaped him, breathless but real.

“C-Class, huh?”

He turned toward the massive doors at the end of the hall, their silver-blue surface gleaming with a faint reflection of himself.

Park Moondae squared his shoulders.

The trial was finally over.

The quiet evening breeze touched Park Moondae’s face as he stepped back into the familiar streets. There were no fanfares, no fireworks—just the distant hum of passing cars, the occasional bark of a dog, and the soft glow of streetlights flickering against cracked sidewalks. But for Moondae, it felt like a moment worth remembering.

His footsteps were light.

His breathing was steady.

And most of all, his body felt alive.

 [Stamina: 20]

He clenched his fists once, then relaxed them, slowly rolling his shoulders back. No soreness. No trembling. Just a well-oiled sense of control and resilience running beneath his skin.

For the first time since he'd opened his eyes in this body, Park Moondae didn’t feel like he was borrowing strength—he felt like he’d finally earned it.

It wasn’t long before he turned into the narrow alley that led to his temporary home: a modest, aging motel on the outskirts of the district. The neon sign outside blinked slowly, one syllable burnt out as always, giving the building a vaguely ghostly presence. But when Moondae stepped inside, the air was warm, and the scent of old pine-scented floor cleaner clung to the walls.

He took the stairs without hesitation this time, his feet quick and stable. No creaks or groans from the joints. When he pushed open the door to his room, a familiar view greeted him.

A thin mattress laid out on the floor, edges neatly tucked in. A few empty boxes pushed into the corner. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Nothing had changed—and yet, it felt different.

Cleaner, for one. Moondae had made sure of that. Every surface wiped. Every corner dusted. The window—though old and slightly jammed—was cracked open just enough to let in fresh air.

This was a temporary place.

But it was his.

He took off his hoodie, hung it carefully on the rusted hook behind the door, and stretched his arms toward the low ceiling. His stomach rumbled softly in the silence, a grounding reminder that no matter what stats increased, he was still human.

With a quiet chuckle, he moved toward the tiny kitchen tucked into the far corner. The fridge buzzed gently as he opened it.

Inside: a few eggs, half a block of tofu, an onion, a small bag of spinach, and leftover rice from yesterday. Simple. But comforting.

He washed his hands, tied an old hand towel around his waist like an apron, and started preparing dinner.

The sound of sizzling tofu filled the room as he cooked, the pan spitting gently as it browned. He sautéed the spinach with garlic, sliced the onion thin and soft-fried it until golden, then added both to the pan. The aroma was warm—earthy and nostalgic. Finally, he fried a single egg and topped it over the reheated rice.

He set everything on the floor, cross-legged in front of the low wooden box he used as a table. No noise. No distractions. Just the soft sound of his own breathing and the quiet hum of the old fridge.

He took a bite.

The tofu was crispy on the edges, still soft in the center. The spinach melted on his tongue, the garlic flavor mild but comforting. The egg yolk broke over the rice, coating it in richness.

It was simple, but... good.

With every bite, Moondae allowed himself to unwind. He didn't think about trials. About stats. About monsters or guides or illusions. Just the warmth of food, the quiet comfort of being alone without loneliness.

When he finished, he washed the dishes slowly, wiping them down with care. The steam from the hot water fogged up the cracked mirror above the sink. He stared into his own reflection for a moment.

His eyes were calm.

That was new.

He turned off the light, pulled his blanket over himself, and settled onto the mattress. The sheets were thin, but they smelled like detergent and sun-dried cloth. Moondae turned to one side, letting out a long, satisfied sigh.

 For once, there was no pain to fall asleep to.

He slept deeply.

The next morning, the alarm buzzed at 6:00 AM sharp.

Moondae stirred, blinking against the early light filtering through the dusty window. His body shifted beneath the blanket and—again—he felt the difference. Waking up wasn’t a struggle anymore. His body wasn’t dragging him down. It felt... responsive.

He sat up, stretched, and checked the system window floating neatly in the air before him.

 Daily Mission (Updated):

15,000 steps

100 Sit-ups

100 Push-ups

100 Squats

 

Moondae raised an eyebrow and gave a faint smirk.

“That's... ambitious.”

But he got up. Tied his shoes. Drank a cup of water. Stepped outside.

The early morning was cold and quiet, mist still hanging low around the lampposts. He started jogging, taking long, even strides through the sleeping streets of the city.

Every step came easily.

He could hear his breath. The rhythm of his heartbeat. The subtle friction of his shoes against pavement.

Fifteen thousand steps. No shortcuts.

When he returned, shirt damp with sweat and hair tousled by the wind, he rolled out his thin mat beside the bed and dropped down for sit-ups.

One. Two. Three…

He didn’t rush. He didn’t stop. His body obeyed, burning in the right places. Not a fight. A flow.

When he finished the last squat, chest heaving slightly, the system window chimed softly:

 Daily Mission Complete.

Moondae dropped down onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His breathing slowed gradually as the burn in his muscles turned into a pleasant ache.

He smiled faintly, eyes half-closed.

“Full recovery please” He finally said. 

Chapter Text

The world was still quiet when Park Moondae arrived at Cloud Nines Café, the sky just barely tinged with early light. A few pale clouds drifted lazily above the buildings, and the air carried a faint chill—a reminder that spring hadn't fully taken hold yet.

The familiar clink of keys echoed as Moondae unlocked the front door. As always, the scent of roasted beans lingered from the day before, warm and faint, like a memory stitched into the walls. He stepped inside, flipped on the lights, and was soon greeted by a soft voice behind him.

"You're early, as usual," said Choi Jin, the owner of the café, her voice carrying the usual sleep-roughened charm. She entered through the side door, still pulling her cardigan into place, a cup of convenience store coffee already in hand.

"Good morning, noona," Moondae replied, offering a polite nod as he started toward the back room to grab his apron.

Choi Jin chuckled softly and followed him in with a yawn. "You’re really something, Moondae. Do you even sleep? Your eyes look clearer than mine ever do at this hour."

"I slept well," he said simply, not looking up as he tied the apron around his waist.

"Mmh. Must be all that clean living," she teased, and then gave him a playful look. “You’re getting more and more adorable, you know that?”

Moondae paused. He blinked slowly. "I don’t know what you mean, but... thank you.”

"You’re welcome," she said, grinning as she headed toward the front counter to prep the register.

Within minutes, the café began to warm with life. The hiss of the espresso machine, the tapping of mugs, the scent of buttered croissants and toasted bread filling the air. Sunlight trickled through the windows, casting golden patterns on the floors. Cloud Nines was open for business.

The early crowd trickled in—office workers, university students, the occasional jogger. Moondae worked efficiently, moving between the register and the espresso machine with ease. His steps were sure, movements practiced. His expression was calm, focused.

Then, the bell above the door jingled again.

Moondae glanced up.

Two figures stepped inside, cutting striking silhouettes against the sunlight. Both wore formal black coats, the silver logo of Celestial Division stitched over their chests. Beneath the coats were matching fitted shirts, black name tags clipped just above their hearts. Black slacks. Polished boots. The contrast between them was sharp—Sejin’s dark hair was slicked back slightly, his face relaxed and boyish, while Ahyeon, with his platinum blonde hair slightly tousled, looked every bit the polite soldier he always tried to be.

“Morning, barista-nim,” Sejin said casually, strolling up to the counter with both hands in his coat pockets.

Ahyeon followed a step behind, offering a small bow. “G-good morning, moondae”

“You two are dressed up,” Moondae noted as he grabbed a clean towel and wiped the counter.

“Mission day,” Sejin said with a grin. “We figured if we’re gonna chase down Class A anomalies, might as well look sharp doing it.”

Ahyeon opened his mouth like he was about to add something, but hesitated.

Sejin raised an eyebrow. “You were going to say something cool, weren’t you?”

“N-no—I was just going to ask for... my usual,” Ahyeon stammered, looking briefly down at the counter.

Moondae turned to the register. “One iced americano, extra shot, no sugar. And for you?” he asked, glancing at Sejin.

“Same thing. But can you write something nice on the cup?” Sejin said, leaning in with a mock-whisper. “Something like 'You’re doing great, sweetie.'”

Moondae didn’t even blink. “No.”

Sejin laughed, head tilting back. “C’mon, you’re breaking my heart.”

Ahyeon gave a quiet chuckle under his breath.

Moondae glanced at him. “You too?”

Ahyeon looked startled for a moment. “I—I think it would be nice. Maybe... not ‘sweetie,’ though.”

Sejin gasped. “Traitor.”

“I-it’s not like that,” Ahyeon said quickly, then gave Moondae a nervous smile. “Just… maybe something encouraging?”

“Fine,” Moondae muttered, grabbing a marker.

He scrawled on both cups quickly. On Sejin’s: ‘Don’t trip today.’

On Ahyeon’s: ‘Stay safe out there.’

As he handed them the cups, Sejin barked out another laugh. “This is why I keep coming here. Brutal honesty and good coffee.”

Ahyeon accepted his drink with a soft “thank you,” then turned slightly to Moondae. “I hope today’s peaceful… for all of us.”

Moondae nodded. “Stay sharp.”

With their coffees in hand and their mission ahead, the two esper-class agents made their way to the door.

“See you later, Moon Guide,” Sejin called over his shoulder.

“Bye, moondae,” Ahyeon added, holding the door open for Sejin before stepping out into the morning light.

Moondae returned to the espresso machine, watching their retreating backs just for a moment before the next customer stepped forward. The rhythm resumed, the café pulsing with the warmth of routine—and somewhere inside that ordinary flow, something like comfort quietly bloomed.

The last bell above the café door jingled softly as the final customer exited, the sky outside already shifting into the golden haze of early evening. Park Moondae finished wiping down the counter, folded his apron, and set it neatly on the hook behind the bar. Choi Jin was sitting on one of the stools, sipping what remained of her lukewarm latte and scanning her tablet lazily.

“I’ll head out first, noona,” Moondae said, grabbing his coat.

Choi Jin looked up, blinking slowly. “Sure. Don’t overwork yourself, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

“And Moondae?” she added as he turned to leave. “Don’t get even cuter while you’re out there. I might not be able to handle it.”

“…I’ll do my best not to,” he replied flatly, earning a short laugh from the woman.

With that, he stepped out into the cool dusk.

... 

Not long after, he arrived at a dimly lit internet café tucked between a pharmacy and a betting shop. The neon glow of the sign buzzed faintly above him. Inside, the rows of booths were sparsely occupied—most users either focused on games or streaming drama reruns with earbuds in.

Moondae slid into a booth at the back, inserted a few bills into the payment slot, and the screen lit up. He cracked his knuckles, then pulled the keyboard toward him and opened the browser.

His search query was simple:

"Esper and Guide Agencies – Rankings, Reviews, Regulations"

Immediately, a list of results sprawled across the screen. Moondae scrolled through them with a sharp gaze.

LUMEN FRONTIER – Known for its militant structure and aggressive esper deployment. Their guides underwent intense synchronization training, sometimes bordering on dangerous. High-risk, high-reward. Too volatile for him.

OBLIVION – A private agency known for secrecy and dealing in discreet operations. Rumors of unethical practices behind the scenes. Not ideal for someone who needed a degree of transparency.

VANTA CORE – Corporate-sponsored. Focused heavily on commercializing espers. Glossy PR and impeccable public image, but too hierarchical. Entry as a Class C guide would likely be ignored or exploited.

SOLUX INSTITUTE – Research-heavy agency. More academic than active. Some former guides ended up in laboratories rather than fieldwork. Not what he needed right now.

And then—

He typed slowly into the search bar:

"Celestial Division"

The name brought up a clean, government-affiliated homepage first. Moondae clicked it open.

 CELESTIAL DIVISION

Established as an independent operations body post-Awakening Surge. Dedicated to protecting civilian life and maintaining esper-guide stability in urban zones.

 

The interface was minimalistic—black, navy, and silver. The crest glinted faintly on the top left: a stylized constellation shaped like a shield. He clicked through the tabs.

Pros:

— Structured, professional deployments.

—  Active mentor programs for guides starting from Class F. 

—  Known for giving proper field opportunities regardless of background or former affiliations.

—  Public transparency records available.

— Emphasis on compatibility and well-being in Guide-Espers sync missions.

Cons:

—  Extremely demanding training regimens.

—  Zero tolerance for field failure—trainees with sync errors were often dismissed after one strike.

—  Historically slow internal promotions for those without direct connections.

—  Heavy political pressure due to government affiliation.

—  Public scrutiny in recent years due to several controversial missions.

He opened another tab and switched to social media platforms—forums, community pages, anonymous esper-review boards.

#CelestialDivision #Review #FieldLife

One post stood out on a discussion board:

 “I was a Class B guide placed in Celestial and worked with two Class A espers. They pair you fast, but the missions are relentless. You’re either growing or breaking apart. There’s no in-between.”

Another post:

 “The agents are elite, no doubt. But the expectations? Inhuman. You better come with a spine or a death wish.”

And then…

 “I saw Seon Ahyeon once during a disaster response. That guy’s synchronization rate was unreal. They say Celestial pairs guides with unstable S-class espers for testing. No idea how he handles it.”

Moondae's fingers moved again, typing:

"Celestial Division – Conflict History"

Articles loaded. He skimmed headlines:

‘Internal Probe Launched After Fatal Sync Error’

‘Celestial Division Denies Use of Rogue Espers in Test Missions’

‘Survivor of Failed Mission Speaks Out: “They Threw Us In Without Backup”’

He clicked through, skimming rapidly. He didn’t need to memorize every detail—not manually, at least.

Just then, a soft chime echoed in his head.

[System Notification: RECORDS Activated]

Recording visual data. All scanned content will be preserved for long-term memory reconstruction. Warning: Extended usage may result in cognitive fatigue.

 

Moondae's eyes sharpened, absorbing line after line. Every word, chart, timestamp—captured and etched into his memory as though printed inside his mind.

He opened more tabs. Cross-checked the information. Dug into case files. Read testimonies. Sifted through old agency rosters. Compared success rates between divisions. Sorted public opinion graphs from the past three years. Evaluated patterns.

His breathing slowed as his focus deepened. The screen flickered again.

[System Notification: Recording at 78% Capacity. Prolonged usage may cause physical strain.]

He ignored it.

Another tab.

Another article.

A quote from a retired guide:

“Celestial will push you past your limit. But if you survive, you walk out with a name.”

Another warning.

 [System Notification: ALERT – Recording threshold exceeded. Cognitive fatigue imminent.]

Still, he kept reading. Until—

A single drop of red hit the keyboard.

Moondae blinked.

Another drop. His nose. He reached up instinctively—fingers brushing blood.

The screen dimmed slightly, a soft beep sounding in his ear as the system forcibly deactivated the RECORDS function.

 [Recording Suspended – User has exceeded safe intake threshold. Please rest to avoid neurological strain.]

He leaned back against the chair, the cheap plastic creaking beneath him. His head pulsed—subtle, dull pressure at the back of his skull.

“…Too much,” he muttered.

Still, even as he pulled a tissue from the dispenser and tilted his head back, the information spun in his mind. Organized. Filed. Accessible. Every bit of it.

Celestial Division.

The risks were high.

But so were the opportunities.

The night air outside the internet café was still and cool, brushing lightly against Park Moondae’s skin as he stepped out into the quiet street. His body ached with fatigue, and the dull sting of dried blood beneath his nose reminded him of the warning the system had given earlier. He exhaled slowly, planning to return to his motel and get a few hours of rest before continuing the exhausting search for an agency tomorrow.

But just as he turned to walk away, a firm grip caught his wrist.

Moondae’s brows furrowed. He looked over his shoulder sharply, instinct already preparing his muscles to react if necessary.

What he saw, however, gave him pause.

A young man—possibly his age, or slightly younger—stood before him. His features were strikingly handsome, to the point that it felt almost artificial. Delicate jawline, high cheekbones, flawless skin. But there was also something distinctly unapproachable about him. His ears were pierced in multiple places, catching the streetlight with a subtle gleam, and his expression was intense, almost too serious.

However, the moment the young man opened his mouth, the entire image shattered.

“I deeply apologize for the abruptness of this interaction!” he began, his tone extremely formal and his voice carrying the rehearsed polish of someone who had memorized etiquette manuals by heart. “I did not intend to startle you, and I sincerely hope I have not caused you any discomfort. If I may, I would like to introduce myself properly—my name is Kim Raebin, age nineteen, currently unaffiliated with any esper-guide agency.”

Moondae blinked. The polite waterfall of words was dizzying.

“I... saw you inside the internet café,” Raebin continued, still gripping Moondae’s wrist but now with the delicacy of someone holding a bird. “We were seated beside one another, though I am fully aware that I was occupying a separate terminal, and I extend my deepest apologies for having glanced—merely glanced!—at your screen. It was unintentional at first, but then I noticed you were searching for esper-guide agencies with considerable intensity, and I... I was captivated by your approach.”

Moondae stared at him in silence.

“I know it is inappropriate to eavesdrop, let alone intrude,” Raebin went on, oblivious to the stunned look on Moondae’s face. “But as someone who is also currently in search of an agency, and—if I may be transparent—someone who has found the process disorienting and lacking in proper guidance, I found myself drawn to your determination. Your methodology appeared calculated, and your screen activity suggested a level of discernment I have not observed among my peers. Therefore, I humbly request—”

“System,” Moondae said in his mind, already exhausted by the one-sided conversation. “Show me his stats.”

[User Information]

Name: Kim Raebin

Age: 19

Title: Guide class A

 

Physical Strength: 70 (80) 

Mental Strength: 60 (90) 

Agility: 50 (70) 

Stamina: 70

 

Skill: Fokus!

(When activated, user’s concentration level increases by 180%, significantly enhancing their guiding performance.)

“…Of course,” Moondae muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

Even without comparing, the difference in raw stats between himself and this polished, clueless talker was frustratingly wide. A Class A Guide, unregistered, full of energy, and now apparently tailing him.

Kim Raebin finally let go of his wrist, stepping back and bowing deeply.

“I mean no offense, truly,” he said. “But I was hoping to accompany you in your search. I believe that following someone who exhibits such clarity may prevent me from making impulsive decisions on my own. I am fully aware that this is an unusual request, but—”

“You’re following someone who doesn’t even know what agency to pick,” Moondae finally interjected, his tone flat.

Raebin straightened and looked genuinely surprised. “You don’t?” He tilted his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “But the way you typed, the keywords you used, the order in which you filtered data—it looked very intentional. You radiated certainty.”

Moondae raised an eyebrow. “That’s just me trying not to be stupid.”

Raebin beamed, as if Moondae had confirmed a deep personal theory. “Exactly! Someone who tries not to be stupid is inherently more intelligent than most! That is precisely why I believe you would be an excellent benchmark.”

What did I get myself into…?

After a moment’s silence, Moondae glanced down the street. There was a 24-hour Ramyeon shop not far from here.

“I’m going to eat,” he said. “If you want to talk about agencies, follow me.”

“Yes, sir!” Raebin replied immediately. “I shall follow your lead. Thank you for this opportunity.”

Moondae began walking toward the shop, not waiting for Raebin to catch up—but of course, the boy was already trailing right behind him.

“I hope this isn’t too forward,” Raebin said as they walked, “but my preferences lean toward agencies that maintain an equitable distribution of resources between espers and guides. That said, I am not inherently opposed to agencies with a heavier esper focus, provided they have safeguards for mental exhaustion and synchronization feedback. Also—”

Moondae sighed inwardly.

This guy really doesn’t stop talking.

But… as much as it annoyed him, there was something almost comforting about the presence. Moondae glanced at him once, quietly memorizing the name again.

Kim Raebin.

They entered the small Ramyeon shop together, bell chiming softly as the door shut behind them.

And so, over two bowls of late-night noodles, an unexpected alliance began.

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of the old ramyeon shop’s refrigerator blended with the occasional clink of chopsticks hitting bowls. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting a pale glow over the small table where Park Moondae and Kim Raebin sat with steaming bowls of noodles in front of them.

Moondae had barely touched his food, instead watching Raebin as the younger man explained his thoughts with the same over-articulated clarity as before. Raebin had been speaking for several uninterrupted minutes about the evaluation standards used by agencies and the ethical dilemmas of performance-based rankings.

Finally, when there was a pause long enough for Moondae to slip a word in, he stirred his noodles once and asked, “Other than the criteria you’ve mentioned… do you have a specific agency in mind? For any reason. Doesn’t have to be logical.”

Raebin blinked at him, mid-slurp, then lowered his chopsticks with a soft clink against the ceramic.

“Ah, yes. Actually… my grandmother recommended one,” he said, hands folding neatly in his lap like he was about to recite something from memory. “The Celestial Division.”

Moondae looked up briefly at the name. That was a mid-tier agency, known for solid training programs and balanced esper-guide pairings. Not the worst choice.

Raebin continued, “Apparently it has a good reputation, and their team has handled several gate closures in the past two years without any significant casualties. My grandmother said they prioritize the mental well-being of their recruits, and that they have... ‘a dignified aesthetic.’”

He chuckled nervously at that last part, clearly amused and embarrassed by the phrase.

“But,” his tone shifted, becoming quieter, “when I visited their headquarters last month—just to observe, not to apply—I saw the people coming in and out of the building, and…”

He hesitated.

“They all looked… perfect.”

Moondae raised an eyebrow.

“Not just physically,” Raebin clarified. “They walked like they belonged. Like they never questioned their strength, or their decisions. Like they’d never make mistakes. I just stood there, across the street, watching them. I couldn’t even bring myself to walk through the door.”

There was a flicker of something vulnerable in Raebin’s eyes now, a stark contrast to his earlier formal verbosity.

“I don’t even know what class I’m in,” he admitted. “I never took the aptitude test. What if I’m just a C-class or D-class? What if I join an agency, and all I do is follow orders and get used until there’s nothing left of me?”

Moondae leaned back in his seat slightly, letting the younger man speak.

Raebin looked down at his bowl, stirring it absentmindedly. “What if I’m not meant for this? What if I embarrass myself the moment I step into a training session?”

He finally fell silent, lifting a spoonful of broth to his lips and sipping quietly. The tension in his shoulders had eased slightly, as if simply voicing those thoughts was a small relief.

Moondae watched him for a few moments before finally speaking again.

“So,” he said calmly, “why do you want to join an agency at all?”

Raebin froze. His hand hovered over the bowl, spoon halfway to his mouth.

It was a simple question. But his eyes darted briefly toward Moondae, then back down, as if the answer was buried somewhere at the bottom of his noodles.

He didn’t answer.

Moondae waited for a beat, then shrugged lightly and spoke again, voice low but not unkind.

“Some people want the money,” he said. “Some want the status. The power. The recognition. Others just don’t want their abilities to rot away unused. There are those who want to protect civilians, sure. Some even think it’s a moral duty.”

Still, Raebin remained silent.

Moondae picked up his chopsticks, twirled them once between his fingers, and said, “You don’t have to have a noble reason. But you should know it. Because if you don’t, the agency will define it for you. And once that happens, it’s hard to take it back.”

Another pause. Then, finally, Raebin put his spoon down and exhaled softly.

“I… want to help people.”

His voice was quiet. Not rehearsed. Not overly formal. Just honest.

“If I have this kind of power—if I was born as a guide—shouldn’t I use it to help others?” he looked up at Moondae, brows furrowed with genuine confusion. “Aren’t espers and guides supposed to protect civilians from gate outbreaks and monsters? If we don’t dedicate ourselves to that… then who will?”

Moondae looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“That’s a nice thought,” he said eventually. “But it’s not that simple.”

Raebin blinked. “It’s not?”

Moondae’s tone didn’t change, but something about it was heavier now. “Dedicating your life to others sounds admirable. But if your life stops being yours… then what are you really giving them?”

He rested his chin on one hand, eyes steady.

“No one should be forced to live for other people. Not even if they’re born with power. Especially not because of it.”

Raebin stared at him. The words didn’t immediately make sense to him, but they stuck—sharp and uncomfortable, like a thorn pressing just beneath the surface of his certainty.

They returned to eating in silence, the warmth of the broth slowly chasing away the chill from outside. Raebin’s thoughts swirled with doubt, but also… a strange kind of clarity he hadn’t expected.

And Park Moondae, for all his cold demeanor, didn’t push the conversation any further.

He let the silence speak for them both.

The days that followed moved slower than Moondae had expected.

Two weeks slipped past quietly, almost forgettably.

Each morning, the sun would peek through the thin curtains of the small motel room Moondae called home. He would rise at the break of dawn, his body moving with the mechanical precision of habit. After brushing his teeth in the cramped, slightly cracked bathroom mirror, he would immediately launch into his daily mission.

The system’s missions had become so embedded in his life that completing them was like breathing — instinctual. A quick jog around the neighborhood, a few minutes of mental focus training, sometimes simple observation tasks like identifying the energy fluctuations of passing guides or espers.

And always, without fail, the soft chime of completion in his head once the missions ended.

Moondae would then head out, the thin windbreaker on his shoulders slightly too large for his frame, and take the familiar route to the café.

The café was always busy, especially in the mornings. Office workers dragging themselves in for their first coffee, college students scribbling last-minute assignments, clusters of regulars chatting quietly. Moondae moved through it all like a shadow — quick, efficient, unbothered.

His hands brewed coffee after coffee without mistakes, his expression calm even as orders piled up. His coworkers, though initially wary of his cold demeanor, had come to appreciate his reliability.

“Thanks, Moondae-ssi,” the manager would occasionally say, a little awkwardly, as if unsure whether to add anything else. Moondae would simply nod and continue working.

In the afternoons, when his shift ended, Moondae didn’t return to the motel right away. Instead, he spent several hours volunteering at a local support center — a place offering help for civilians struggling to adjust to life around active gates and latent abilities.

He mostly did physical work: moving supplies, organizing documents, assisting injured or overwhelmed civilians under the direction of actual therapists.

It wasn’t glamorous. But for some reason, it grounded him.

Sometimes, small children with tentative smiles would wave at him. Moondae would give them a tiny nod in return — enough to encourage them but not enough to invite more interaction.

In the quiet rhythm of these days, Moondae found a rare peace.

There were no unexpected crises, no battles for survival, no sudden betrayals. Only the slow, steady passage of time and the ticking clock of his own plans.

At night, back in the dim motel room, Moondae would sometimes lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles.

His mind would drift — not to worries, but to possibilities.

He had already made his decision.

Celestial Division.

Among the chaos of public opinions and controversy, it was still the most logical choice for him, considering his circumstances and future ambitions.

He didn't bother second-guessing himself. He simply waited.

Waited for the beginning of next month, when he would officially receive his first paycheck — a small but symbolic milestone — and then... he would move.

For now, there was nothing left but to live each day quietly.

And so he did.

The city outside bustled noisily, neon lights flashing, car horns blaring.

But inside Moondae’s small world, everything moved with quiet, deliberate patience.

Just for a little longer.

The warm golden lights of Cloud Nines Café spilled out onto the sidewalk like a gentle invitation to rest. The hum of quiet conversation mixed with the soft clinks of ceramic cups and dessert forks. It was past 8 PM, and although the energy was more subdued than the frantic mornings, the café was far from empty. Evening shifts had gained momentum ever since Choi Jin, the ever-perceptive owner, expanded the business hours and brought in more staff. The café now operated from early morning to 10 PM — and tonight, it was Moondae’s turn on the closing shift.

Moondae moved behind the counter with familiar efficiency, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to his elbows as he wiped down the espresso machine. The playlist had shifted to soft jazz, and he thought he’d recognized the tune — something nostalgic, yet unplaceable.

The bell above the door rang.

He didn’t look up right away. The sound of footsteps followed — measured, a bit heavier than usual. Then a familiar voice, softer than normal:

“Can I get a dark Americano, please? Extra shot.”

Moondae turned his head, and his brow twitched in surprise.

Standing before the counter in their black agency uniforms were Seon Ahyeon and Lee Sejin.

They looked… a little bit different.

Not in appearance — Ahyeon’s platinum blond hair was still neatly swept back, though a few strands had fallen out of place. Sejin’s inky black hair looked more tousled than usual. Both of them wore their long coats unbuttoned, revealing the sleek dark shirts beneath. But what caught Moondae’s attention wasn’t their clothes — it was the fatigue that hung on them like a second layer of fabric.

Ahyeon’s usual gentle smile faltered slightly, forced at the corners. His eyes were dim, laced with exhaustion.

Sejin, usually so relaxed and casual, wore a tight expression, jaw clenched as if holding back something heavy.

“Same for me,” Sejin said, voice a little hoarse. “And uh… do you guys still have that strawberry chiffon cake? But not the sweet version. Something... light.”

Moondae nodded silently, processing their order with mechanical ease, but his mind was anything but calm.

They hadn't been by the café in several days — an odd break in their usual routine. And now, seeing them like this…

He set their drinks on a tray with quiet precision, adding the requested cake slices. With practiced movements, he carried them over to the table in the far corner — their usual spot.

But he didn’t leave immediately.

Against his usual instincts — against the wall he so carefully built between himself and others — he pulled out the empty chair opposite them and sat down.

Neither Sejin nor Ahyeon spoke right away. Sejin took a sip of his coffee and let out a breath. Ahyeon gave Moondae a tired, grateful look, but it was clear from the way his hands clutched his cup that he was barely keeping it together.

“…You both look dead,” Moondae said plainly, eyes flicking from one to the other.

It wasn’t concern, exactly. But it wasn’t indifference either.

Ahyeon let out a quiet chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Is it that obvious?”

Sejin rested his chin on one hand and muttered, “Guess we’ve been working too hard to fake it.”

There was a brief silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, quietly, Moondae asked:

“What happened?”

Ahyeon was the one to answer, though it took him a moment. He shifted slightly, glancing down at the coffee in his hands before speaking.

“We had a mission,” he began softly. “Gate emergency. High-class zone, two guides assigned… but only two. The rest were espers, and some of them — including Sejin and I — are B-Class.”

Moondae nodded slowly, following.

Ahyeon continued, his voice tinged with helplessness. “One of the guides… they weren’t happy. Said the load was too much. That supporting high-tier espers without enough reinforcement was dangerous. They weren’t wrong, technically. But… they just—” he paused, brows furrowing, “—refused to sync with some of the team. Said it wasn’t worth the risk.”

“They bailed mid-mission,” Sejin added, tone flat. “Told the command center we were being reckless and stormed out.”

Ahyeon looked up at Moondae, expression conflicted. “We tried to hold it together. Sejin and I… we can manage without guide support, at least for a while. But the others weren’t as stable. We ended up getting into an argument, and it… got messy.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Moondae studied their faces. The weight on them wasn’t just physical exhaustion — it was disappointment. Frustration. Maybe even guilt.

“You were trying to do your job,” Moondae said quietly, almost to himself.

Ahyeon blinked. Sejin gave a dry laugh. “Funny how that doesn’t make it easier.”

Moondae didn’t have a response to that. He only leaned back slightly, watching the steam rise from their coffee cups.

There was something strange about this moment — the quiet bubble of warmth in a corner of a busy café, where three young men sat nursing bitterness and fatigue in silence.

And yet… it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Not really.

Ahyeon finally smiled again — a real one this time, albeit small. “Thanks, Moondae-ya. For sitting with us.”

Moondae glanced at him, then at Sejin.

“…I didn’t do much.”

“But you listened,” Sejin said, lifting his coffee in a mock toast. “And that’s more than most.”

The warm atmosphere of Cloud Nines Café remained quiet, the occasional clink of cups or the soft laughter of a group near the window blending into the background. At the far corner table, under the amber-tinted lights, Moondae still sat with Sejin and Ahyeon, the air around them heavy but gradually softening.

Ahyeon had just thanked him. Moondae exhaled, almost in disbelief at himself for sitting here this long. Then, something uncharacteristic slipped past his lips — a smile. A small one, but unmistakably real.

“If listening is already that helpful,” Moondae began, voice low but carrying a note of something playful for once, “then maybe I should try actually helping.”

Ahyeon blinked, tilting his head a little. Sejin raised a brow.

Moondae leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice in a mock-conspiratorial tone.

“You both know I’m a guide, right?”

The two nodded, slightly confused.

Moondae glanced around the café. It was late enough that most of the crowd had gone. A couple whispered near the front. Another pair scrolled on their phones near the back. No one was paying attention to them.

“I know I’m not in a high rank like you two,” Moondae said, his voice unusually soft — almost careful, like he was revealing a secret. “Well… technically, I haven’t registered yet. So I don’t even know what class I’ll be. But since I’ve been active with the Community Center, there’s something we guides are taught to do when we meet espers who are emotionally exhausted.”

His gaze flicked between the two men. “Would you be okay if I gave it a try?”

Ahyeon stiffened slightly. He set his coffee down with a quiet tap and gave a sheepish laugh.

“Um… Moondae-ya, last time you tried helping me, you almost collapsed. I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

Moondae blinked in surprise. “That happened?”

Ahyeon looked guilty. “You probably don’t remember. You were very pale.”

Sejin, on the other hand, looked like someone had just revealed a scandal. “Wait, you sync’d with Ahyeon? He’s S-Class.”

His gaze flicked toward Moondae with a new sense of curiosity. “And you didn’t disintegrate. Huh.”

“I’m right here” Ahyeon muttered, nudging him with his elbow.

Moondae rolled his eyes, but the faint smile was still there. “It’s fine. I’ll be okay. I’ve practiced this technique before. It doesn’t drain much if done correctly.”

They exchanged a glance — Sejin raising an eyebrow in amusement, Ahyeon still visibly hesitant — but in the end, they both gave him a small nod.

Moondae gently pushed his chair back. He took one final look around the café to make sure no one would bother them, then exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

He let himself focus — not on anything physical, but inward, toward that steady current he had learned to recognize. A breath in, and the quiet thrum of his guide aura awakened, pooling at his core before slowly sliding down, like golden threads unraveling from within him.

From beneath the soles of his feet, a faint glow began to spread — soft, like sunlight reflected off warm sand. The glow coiled upward in curling loops, expanding in a circle around their table. The aura didn’t make a sound, didn’t flicker — it simply was, humming with gentle warmth. Unseen to the regular eye, but Moondae could feel every inch of it.

The technique had a name — one written in the back pages of the worn handbook he’d read over and over.

Sanctum Loop — a passive support method used by community-level guides to create a temporary mental buffer for overwhelmed espers. It created a shared “safe zone” of calm, where mental burdens could quietly ease themselves, even if only for a short while.

Moondae centered his breathing, letting the aura pulse at a steady rhythm. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Eyes still closed, he focused entirely on the space within the loop. The table. The chairs. And the presence of Sejin and Ahyeon — two exhausted cores trying to stay upright under invisible pressure.

He didn’t notice the way Sejin straightened slightly, brows lifting in surprise.

He didn’t see Ahyeon’s hand freeze on his cup, then slowly curl over it, as if grounding himself.

They could feel it. A warm, steady pressure — not intrusive, not overwhelming — but present. Like sinking into a hot spring after standing in the cold too long.

Sejin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “...Wow.”

Ahyeon blinked rapidly, his shoulders easing just a bit. “This feels… safe.”

Moondae, unaware of their reactions, kept his breathing steady, mentally maintaining the loop. Only a few more minutes, he reminded himself. Just long enough to lighten the weight in their minds, to give them a moment of reprieve. No more. No less.

The golden aura shimmered faintly around their feet, unnoticed by everyone else in the café.

For a few moments, Cloud Nines Café was more than just a place for coffee.

It was a sanctuary.

Chapter Text

The soft golden glow beneath their feet began to dim.

Moondae slowly opened his eyes, his breath steady, the inner pulse of his aura settling into silence. The Sanctum Loop dissolved gently into the air, like mist dispersing with the morning sun. The mental quiet it brought remained lingering — a soft aftertaste of peace.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The look on Sejin’s and Ahyeon’s faces — relaxed shoulders, gentler eyes — told him the loop had worked.

Silently, Moondae rose from his chair. His muscles ached slightly from sitting still for too long, but he didn’t complain. Without a word, he turned toward the barista counter. He had already lingered here longer than he’d intended — his shift would be resuming in just a few minutes.

But before he could take more than a step, a strong hand closed around his wrist.

Startled, Moondae glanced back.

Sejin, still seated, was gripping his wrist firmly. Not painfully — but with enough force to make it clear he wouldn’t let go without an answer.

Moondae blinked. “What do you want?”

Sejin looked up at him with that familiar, confident grin — the kind that never really told you if he was serious or just playing with you.

“I want you to join the Celestial Division.”

There was a beat of silence.

Ahyeon lit up beside him, his earlier calm replaced by excitement. “That’d be amazing! Having Moondae-ya in the same agency? I’d love that.”

Moondae stared at them. Sejin still wasn’t letting go.

And from the look in his eyes, Moondae got the distinct impression that if he didn’t answer soon, Sejin might physically drag him out of the café and register him on the spot.

So, he sighed.

“I’ve already chosen Celestial Division,” he said honestly. “But I was planning to wait until the start of the month. I want to finish up here first — get my last paycheck.”

For a second, Sejin looked genuinely stunned — not at the choice, but at the fact that Moondae had already decided and hadn’t told them.

Then, with a satisfied huff, he finally released Moondae’s wrist.

“Good,” Sejin said simply, and stood.

Moondae had to tilt his head back. He always forgot how tall Sejin was until moments like this — when the man rose to full height like some proud, smug statue.

Without asking, Sejin reached over the counter and grabbed the tray Moondae had left behind.

He held it with both hands, then turned to flash Moondae a smile that was far too happy.

“Then it’s settled,” Sejin announced grandly. “We’re staying here till closing, and then we’re walking you home.”

Moondae blinked. “…That’s absurd.”

“Absurdly responsible,” Sejin replied, already placing the tray back on the counter for him.

Ahyeon nodded, beaming. “He’s serious. I don’t think he’s ever looked this determined outside of combat.”

Moondae tried again. “You two have no reason to—”

“We do,” Sejin interrupted, picking up a napkin and waving it around like a flag. “You’re going to be our teammate soon. We’re protecting our investment.”

Moondae just stared at them, trying not to laugh — because the whole thing was ridiculous. And because some part of him — the tired, quiet part — didn’t hate it.

So he let them be. He returned to work, tray in hand, with Sejin and Ahyeon sitting right where they said they would. They stayed through every coffee order, every dish-washing session, and every late customer complaint. Sometimes chatting with each other. Sometimes just waiting. But they didn’t leave.

By the time the café closed, the three of them stepped out into the cool night together — shoulder to shoulder.

Sejin walked slightly ahead, arms casually draped over both their shoulders, talking animatedly about the “initiation missions” he was going to make Moondae do once he joined. Ahyeon kept responding with light banter, occasionally teasing Sejin about scaring the poor new recruit.

And Moondae — quiet, bemused — walked between them. Listening. Not saying much. But not resisting either.

The night air carried their laughter, footsteps echoing against the dim sidewalks of the city.

For the first time in a long time, Moondae felt something like belonging begin to stir.

The walk back was quieter.

The streets were darker now, bathed only in the flickering warmth of old streetlamps. Conversation had dwindled as the three boys neared the edge of town — the more industrial area where the small café and Moondae’s modest motel were tucked away.

They stopped just a few steps from the entrance to the old motel building. The sign above flickered with tired neon, casting a pale orange light across their faces.

“This is far enough,” Moondae said, shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. His tone was firmer now — polite, but final.

Sejin looked ready to argue.

“I mean it,” Moondae added, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “You’ve both done enough. Go back to the agency before it gets too late.”

Ahyeon let out a soft sigh, a bit reluctant. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass,” Moondae replied. “You’ve already walked me halfway across the city. Go.”

Sejin finally gave in with a mock-scowl. “Fine. But if something happens, you better call us.”

“I won’t,” Moondae said, already climbing the first few steps.

He paused, turning back just once. “Thanks for tonight.”

With a faint smile, he disappeared into the stairwell, the old metal steps creaking beneath his shoes.

He took them two at a time — out of habit. The narrow hallways smelled of old smoke and cleaning chemicals, and the dim ceiling lights buzzed faintly overhead.

His unit was on the third floor, tucked at the far end. Quiet. Unremarkable.

But as he approached, something stopped him cold.

His door was ajar.

Just slightly. Barely noticeable — but enough to send a jolt down his spine.

He never left it open when he is out. Not once.

Immediately, the air shifted. A pressure — subtle but unmistakable — curled around him.

The presence of aura. Several of them.

Esper aura.

And they were inside his unit.

A shiver crawled up Moondae’s neck. His breath caught, instincts kicking in.

Without a sound, he stepped back. Slow. Careful. He didn’t make a single creak on the old floorboards as he retreated down the hall. At the stairwell, he pressed himself to the wall and held his breath.

Then, he did what he had trained himself to do since his earliest days as a guide — he vanished.

Not literally. But his aura, his energy as a guide — it disappeared completely. A practiced cancelation, erasing every trace of himself from the ether.

To those inside his room, it would be as if no one was nearby.

He started to descend the stairs, moving like a shadow.

At the first-floor landing, his phone vibrated — a sharp buzz against the silence. The suddenness of it nearly made him drop it. He pulled it from his coat and saw the name:

Seon Ahyeon.

Moondae answered immediately, whispering, “Hello?”

“Moondae-ya,” came Ahyeon’s soft voice, slightly amused, “I think I grabbed the wrong handkerchief. Yours is still in my coat pocket. Should I bring it back tonight or just return it tomorrow?”

Moondae didn’t even think.

“Don’t worry about that. But… can I ask you both for a favor?”

There was a pause on the other end.

“…What’s wrong?” Ahyeon asked, voice shifting into something sharper. “You sound like you’re outside. Why aren’t you inside yet?”

Moondae glanced up toward the stairwell, making sure there was no movement from above.

“There are espers in my motel unit,” he said, voice low, every word carefully measured. “I don’t know what they’re doing, but I want this handled through proper channels. I don’t want a misunderstanding if they’re— I mean, I know there’s nothing in my room worth—”

A second voice cut him off — Sejin.

“Wait right there. We’re coming back.”

...

Sejin and Ahyeon returned faster than expected. Moondae hadn’t moved from where he stood — in the shadows just across the street, eyes fixed on the narrow stairwell of the motel.

Their arrival wasn’t loud. No rushing footsteps or frantic calls — just the quiet, deliberate sound of polished shoes on pavement. The two young men came into view, lit by the sickly glow of the streetlamp. Both calm. Both focused.

Sejin’s coat fluttered faintly in the breeze. “You weren’t kidding,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he looked up toward the third floor.

“I want this handled officially,” Moondae said immediately. “If they’re there by mistake—if they have a warrant or something—then I don’t want to make trouble.”

Sejin didn’t answer at first. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a sleek black card encased in thin steel trim. The golden emblem on it gleamed faintly even in the poor light — a phoenix cradling a sword in its wings.

“Normally,” he began, “I don’t like waving this around. But since you brought up the word official…”

He held it out for Moondae to see.

“This is my ID as an S-Class Esper under the National Esper Authority. Same for Ahyeon. In matters involving unauthorized esper activity, our authority supersedes the civilian police force.”

He slid the card back into his coat. “I’m not saying this to show off. But you need to understand — people like that”—he tilted his head toward the motel—“don’t get a courtesy call.”

Ahyeon, quieter but equally focused, added, “Show us your room, Moondae.”

Moondae hesitated — not out of doubt, but because part of him still couldn’t believe this was happening. Then he nodded and led them up the stairs, heart pounding, legs steady.

This time, he didn’t slow down.

They stopped at the third floor, in front of his unit. The door was still slightly ajar — a detail that now felt sharp and violating.

Sejin’s expression shifted. He had sensed it too — the tangled web of esper auras, like threads of static clinging to the walls. Ahyeon’s fingers twitched once — an unconscious sign of preparation.

Moondae stepped aside.

Sejin took the lead.

Without hesitation, he placed one hand on the door and pushed.

It creaked open fully.

Inside, chaos. Four men — all adults, all espers — froze mid-action. One of them had just lifted a box. Another had a bag half-filled with Moondae’s neatly stacked instant meals. They were all dressed plainly, but their wristbands, gloves, and faint fluctuations of aura gave them away: trained, but not licensed.

Trespassers.

Illegal operatives.

The men turned toward the door, startled — expecting perhaps a motel worker, or Moondae himself.

What they saw instead was Sejin.

He stepped inside with the kind of calm that only came from complete control. His eyes swept over them once, and he didn’t even bother to raise his voice.

“You have ten seconds to explain why you're inside a registered unit without warrant or permission.”

One of the men — the one nearest the bedroll — stepped forward, faltering. “We thought— We received a tip—”

“That’s not an explanation,” Sejin said coldly. “That’s a sentence fragment. Try again.”

The room itself, such as it was, told its own story. There was almost nothing in it. A thin mat on the floor, boxes without contents, a crate of budget instant meals. No electronics, no luxuries, not even a clock on the wall. It was the kind of living space no one expected an awakened guide to call home.

The contrast between Sejin’s neatly tailored coat, the subtle shine of his badge, and the bareness of Moondae’s world was almost too much. One of the intruders seemed to falter just from seeing it.

“You’re S-Class,” another muttered, almost to himself.

Sejin tilted his head, unimpressed. “And you’re not. So unless you’re hoping to explain this at the central registry, I suggest you move.”

No one moved.

Then, like something out of a silent command, the temperature of the room shifted. Not literally — but the air grew heavy. Their knees felt it. Their lungs felt it. It was the pressure of an S-Class aura unshackled, even if only slightly. A reminder.

Sejin didn’t lift a hand. He didn’t need to.

Ahyeon stepped past Moondae, voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been caught in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, under the wrong authority. If you move now and file an immediate incident statement with the National Registry, you might avoid having your licenses revoked permanently.”

Moondae watched, stunned, as the four men dropped everything they were holding and scrambled for the door. One even muttered a panicked apology to Sejin, who ignored it entirely.

Within moments, they were gone.

The silence that followed was strangely loud.

Sejin finally exhaled and turned to Moondae. “They won’t be back.”

Moondae’s gaze flicked to his completely trashed room. A box had been torn open for no reason. His mattress had been turned over. Some rice crackers were crushed on the floor.

“They didn’t find anything,” he murmured.

Ahyeon crouched near one of the boxes, gently straightening it. “You okay?”

Moondae nodded once.

But inwardly, he felt something shift.

He had been invisible for so long — too low in the food chain for anyone to care. And now, just from standing near Sejin, he had watched trained espers panic and retreat.

There really was a world of difference between class ranks.

Chapter Text

Moondae remained silent.

He stood in the middle of the wreckage — the broken boxes, the overturned mattress, crushed crackers scattered like dust across the floor — and simply stared. His mind worked quietly, trying to make sense of it. Not the mess. The intent.

What were they looking for?

Nothing here had value. There were no electronics, no documents, no traces of wealth or secrets. Just a spartan life made up of necessity, not choice.

Ahyeon moved gently beside him, kneeling down and gathering the scattered packages of instant meals. He didn’t say anything at first. Just helped, without asking.

Sejin leaned against the doorway, one hand still inside his coat, as if expecting a second wave. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. “I’ve already forwarded their bios to the Agency’s Security Division. Arrest teams are moving now.”

Moondae didn’t react.

Sejin continued, watching him. “They’ll be processed, and questioned. We’ll get names, sources, affiliations. Whoever sent them — we’ll find out. This won’t be left open.”

Still, Moondae said nothing.

Ahyeon finally glanced up. And that’s when he saw it — the subtle trembling in his friend’s hands. The look in his eyes that wasn’t confusion or fear, but withdrawal.

Moondae was drifting, lost in a space of disbelief too deep for words.

Ahyeon reached up, slowly, and took his friend’s hand.

It was cold. Icy, even. Fingers stiff like someone who had been outside in the snow too long. Ahyeon held them tightly, grounding him.

“Moondae-ya,” he said softly. “Hey.”

The smalller man blinked, slowly turning to look at him — the first movement that felt real since the break-in.

Ahyeon offered a small smile, just enough to show warmth. “Don’t stay here tonight.”

Moondae didn’t answer.

“I mean it,” Ahyeon continued. “You can come to my apartment. Just for a few days — until the Agency finishes your registration. Once that’s done, you’ll be assigned a dorm if you want one.”

Sejin added, “The Agency provides temporary housing for awakened espers who don’t have stable living conditions. It’s not uncommon. You’d qualify without issue.”

“But until then,” Ahyeon said gently, his hand still wrapped around Moondae’s, “stay with me. I won’t sleep knowing you’re here alone.”

There was no pity in his tone. Just quiet concern. And underneath that, something fiercer — protectiveness, maybe even guilt. It hurt Ahyeon to see where Moondae had been living.

The mattress didn’t even have a blanket.

And this was the same man who a few days ago had helped him to calm down in times of stress. The first person who became his friend, the first person who made ahyeon feel comfortable talking and the person who worked so hard.

Moondae opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Sejin finally straightened from the doorframe and crossed the room. His voice dropped to a lower, thoughtful tone. “If I had to guess… those men were trying to learn more about you.”

Park Moondae looked up.

“You’re not registered,” Sejin continued. “But you’ve been working as a volunteer guide. That makes you visible — to other espers and guides, to the Agency, and to the wrong people too.”

Ahyeon frowned. “You think someone’s trying to blackmail him?”

“Possibly,” Sejin said. “Or trying to use his background as leverage for something. People dig into unregistered volunteers all the time. They assume you’ve got something to hide.”

Moondae finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “That… makes sense.”

He looked around his room one more time — the plain walls, the food he’d have to throw out, the mattress now useless — and slowly exhaled.

“I never had anything to hide,” he murmured. “I just thought no one would care.”

Ahyeon squeezed his hand, and for the first time that night, Moondae met his eyes properly.

“Come with me,” Ahyeon said again. “Please.”

The silence stretched for a few seconds more… and then Moondae nodded.

A single, quiet nod.

Ahyeon smiled — the kind of smile that bloomed slowly, full of relief and warmth. “Alright. Let’s grab your ID and anything else important.”

“I don’t have much,” Moondae said. “But… okay.”

They moved around the room together, gathering what little he had — a folded envelope with documents, a worn hoodie, a toothbrush. Ahyeon carried a small bag, helping him pack. Sejin stayed by the door, eyes scanning the hallway, aura flickering now and then like a silent warning: Don’t try us again.

And when they stepped out of the motel for the last time that night — the air cold and clean — Moondae looked up at the sky.

It was the same sky he’d seen every night for weeks.

Living in Ahyeon’s apartment was like stepping into another world.

Moondae had expected temporary comfort — a polite place to sleep, maybe some quiet — but he hadn’t expected this. The mattress was like a cloud, warm and firm in all the right places. The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh sheets, undisturbed by city noise or the hum of old machines. The bathroom was nearly as big as his old motel room, and the refrigerator was stocked with vegetables, yogurt, and expensive bottled juices that Ahyeon didn’t even mention.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Moondae thought: I could stay here forever.

The next morning, he woke at 6 a.m., his body still moving on auto-pilot from months of routine. When he came out of the guest room, freshly changed and tying his shoelaces for a morning run, he nearly collided with Ahyeon, who was walking out of his own bedroom in pajama pants and a sleepy scowl.

“You’re awake?!” Ahyeon blinked. “Already?”

Moondae offered a sheepish smile. “Habit.”

Ahyeon rubbed his eyes. “You really do live like a monk…”

They ended up jogging together — something light, just a loop around the quiet park nearby. Moondae kept a steady pace, subtly completing his daily mission requirements from the esper system that no one else could see. Ahyeon chatted beside him, never guessing.

Afterward, with a towel over his neck and a banana smoothie in hand, Moondae felt… at ease. Almost too much.

Ahyeon had work in the afternoon — tutoring online classes — so Moondae excused himself to visit the Community Center for his volunteer shift. Nothing strange happened. The halls were peaceful, the younger espers cheerful as usual, and no one mentioned the incident from the night before.

While on break, he received a short message from Sejin.

 [Security Division has all four in custody. Interrogation’s ongoing. I’ll update when we get something solid.]

Moondae replied quickly.

 [Thanks. Free cake and drinks next time you drop by.]

 

 [!!! SAY LESS] came the response, followed by a dozen emoticons.

By late afternoon, he left the Community Center and changed into his café uniform — dark shirt, apron, sleeves rolled up. He worked the closing shift, which usually meant a busy early evening followed by a slow wind-down near midnight.

At 7:43 p.m., the café was full.

Chatter echoed across wooden floors, the scent of warm bread and caramel coffee filling the air. Moondae was wiping down the counter when the front door slammed open.

Everyone turned.

A man staggered into the room — tall, disheveled, face smeared with something dark. His clothes were torn in places, eyes bloodshot, and his hands shook like they were barely connected to his mind.

Moondae recognized the signature even before the flare appeared — unstable esper energy rippling like heatwaves from his body.

The café went silent for a heartbeat.

Then a crash. A stack of glass cups exploded near the register as the man’s aura flared again, shards flying. Someone screamed.

“Get down!” Moondae shouted to the nearest table, rushing forward. “Everyone please go to the emergency—!”

But the man’s eyes locked onto him.

“You… you're a guide,” the esper hissed, stumbling forward.

Moondae froze.

He knows?

Before he could react, the man lunged.

His hand shot forward, gripping Moondae’s collar and dragging him across the counter like a doll. His back slammed into the wall with a brutal thud, knocking the air from his lungs.

Moondae barely had time to gasp before fingers wrapped around his throat.

Then came the burn — the sickening, nauseating burn of being drained.

His vision blurred as he felt his own energy ripped from his core. It wasn’t a connection. It wasn’t guidance. It was theft — violent and raw.

The esper’s eyes rolled back slightly, face twisted in feverish desperation. “More—give me more—!”

Moondae couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. His limbs went numb.

Somewhere in the distance, people were screaming. Chairs fell. Someone ran for the back door.

I have to get him off me, Moondae thought, his vision going gray.

But the grip only tightened.

And his energy kept pouring out.

Moondae’s lungs screamed for air, his body burning from the unnatural drain of energy. The esper’s grip around his throat was like iron, unwavering, his face twisted with manic desperation.

I’m going to pass out—

But his hand brushed something.

The vase.

His fingers curled around the cold ceramic handle of the decorative flower vase sitting on the side counter. With the last ounce of strength he could muster, Moondae swung it upward — hard.

CRACK!

The vase shattered against the esper’s temple, ceramic and water exploding in all directions. The man staggered with a guttural growl, reeling back just enough for Moondae to breathe again.

Gasping and coughing, Moondae shoved his leg forward with all his weight and kicked the man in the stomach. It wasn’t a strong hit, but it made the esper stumble.

A window of escape.

He didn’t waste it.

He turned and ran — legs trembling, vision still swimming, heart pounding in his ears. But before he could reach the café door, a rough hand grabbed his waist from behind.

“No!” Moondae shouted, claws of panic rising in his throat.

The esper yanked him back and dragged him out of the café like a ragdoll, arm locked around Moondae’s waist. Tables crashed, chairs toppled over. Glass crunched beneath their shoes as Choi Jin’s scream pierced the chaos behind them.

“MOONDAE!!”

But no one moved.

The crowd had fled or ducked behind tables, helpless — all civilians, powerless against an esper in a frenzy.

The cold night air bit into Moondae’s skin as the esper hauled him down the street, practically throwing him toward a black car with the back door already open. Moondae’s hands clawed at the door frame, trying to resist. His legs kicked wildly, but his strength was vanishing fast.

“Let—me go—!”

The esper shoved him inside the car, and Moondae’s body landed hard on the seat. Before he could scramble out again, the door slammed shut behind him with a thud and a metallic click — locked.

He banged his fist against the glass, lungs heaving.

Through the window, he saw the esper approaching the other side, reaching for the front door — to drive off with him inside.

Then—

BOOM.

The esper’s body was suddenly thrown backward, hurled several meters away as if an invisible force had punched him in the chest. He crashed into the pavement with a sickening thud.

Moondae’s eyes widened.

What—

He twisted in his seat, breath catching as he saw them.

Two figures stood at the end of the block.

Kim Raebin — unmistakable with his pale, calm face and polished posture — stood at the front, his hand held slightly outward as if to shield. But Moondae knew. Raebin was a Guide, not an attacker.

Which meant—

The boy beside him.

A tall young man stood there, half his face shadowed beneath a hood, one hand still faintly glowing with residual esper energy. His posture was relaxed, but his aura was sharp, deadly, like a blade freshly drawn.

Moondae stared, dazed, as realization clicked into place.

He’s the one who launched that attack.

Still panting, still weak, Moondae reached for the door handle again — locked.

But outside, the esper was already scrambling up again, blood trailing from his brow, madness burning in his eyes.

The world around them blurred in chaos — glass shards scattered across the pavement, car alarms wailing, people screaming in the distance — but Kim Raebin’s focus was razor-sharp.

The two espers clashed violently under the dim streetlight. Bursts of raw energy cracked the air like thunder, sending shockwaves through the empty street. The unknown esper — his best friend — was holding off the enemy, buying precious seconds.

Raebin had to make them count.

He sprinted forward, his steps precise and unwavering, even as the ground trembled beneath the weight of the ongoing battle.

His eyes locked onto the locked car door.

One breath. One thought. One goal.

His gloved hand pressed against the metal with calculated control, channeling his guide aura — not to attack, but to sync. His aura flickered like threads of warm light, bypassing the primitive locking system. The mechanism clicked open with a soft mechanical snap.

Raebin yanked the door open.

“Park Moondae hyung!”

The man inside was crumpled in the back seat, barely upright, head slumped forward, lips pale. His breathing was shallow — too shallow — and even without touching him, Raebin could feel it.

He’s drained.

The esper had stolen Moondae’s energy — ripped it from him like tearing breath from lungs.

“Moondae hyung…” Raebin whispered again, his voice breaking for a second as he reached in.

Moondae stirred faintly at his voice, eyelids fluttering like broken wings.

“…Raebin…”

It was the weakest whisper. Barely there. But Raebin caught it.

“I’m here,” he said firmly, slipping his arms under Moondae’s body. “You’re safe now.”

As he lifted the older boy, Raebin felt the alarming weightlessness of Moondae’s body — as if every drop of life had been wrung out of him. He gritted his teeth, trying not to show the panic rising in his throat.

Then — Moondae’s head dropped against his shoulder.

Raebin froze.

“…Moondae hyung?” He shook him slightly.

No response.

“Hyung!”

Still nothing.

Panic exploded in his chest. His hands gripped tighter as he cradled Moondae closer, as if shielding him from the world could somehow reverse the damage.

Stay with me. Please, just hold on.

Raebin turned on his heel and ran — away from the fight, down the side street. His eyes flicked to the battle once. The esper behind him was still fighting fiercely, pushing back the frenzied attacker with brutal force.

I trust you, Raebin told him silently.

Now it was his turn to protect someond.

He ducked into a narrow alley, one he knew opened to a safe block just a minute away. His breath grew ragged, his boots slapping against the pavement, but he never loosened his hold on Moondae.

They reached the shadowed stairwell of an abandoned shop, hidden from the open street.

There, he dropped to his knees, still clutching the unconscious man.

He pressed his hand against Moondae’s back, gently sending in a stabilizing wave of his guide energy — just enough to anchor, to soothe, to hold him here.

“You’re not going anywhere hyung” Raebin whispered, his voice shaking. “I won’t let you.”

The chaos from the main street faded behind them, the sound of sirens beginning to echo faintly in the distance.

But for now, the world had narrowed down to just two figures in the shadows — one unconscious, and the other refusing to let him go.

As the cold wind swept through the alley, Raebin pulled his coat tighter around Moondae’s fragile body and lowered his head.

Chapter Text

The first thing Moondae became aware of was the soft, mechanical hiss near his ear. Then came the sharp scent of antiseptic and the gentle tug of something taped to the back of his hand. His eyelids fluttered, heavy and dry, like they hadn’t moved in days. And maybe they hadn’t.

When his vision finally focused, sterile white met his gaze—the ceiling of a hospital room, complete with a slow-turning fan and a blinking green light above the door. Something was strapped across his face—an oxygen mask—and he could feel the cold sting of an IV in his arm. His lips were dry. His chest rose and fell slowly, aided by the hiss of the oxygen feed.

Hospital... again?

He stared blankly for a moment, mind lagging just a step behind his body. But then the memories came rushing back, crisp and horrifyingly clear.

The shattered plate. The smell of fear. That esper’s hand on his throat. 

Raebin’s voice.

The struggle.

A car door slamming.

A presence—two of them—then light.

He didn’t forget a single second. Not even the moment he lost consciousness.

The skill he’d gained from the Advanced Trial, “Records” ensured every moment was burned into his memory like ink on skin. It was almost too vivid, so detailed it made his chest feel tight. For a second, he wondered if it had all been a hallucination—maybe he had been in a car crash. But no... no, this was real. Too real.

Before he could spiral, a familiar chime echoed inside his head.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]

Welcome Back user Park Moondae.

Vital signs stable.

Consciousness detected.

System status: Reactivated.

 

Note: System functions were temporarily suspended due to user’s complete unconscious state.

Auto-pause on daily mission progress enabled.

No penalties applied.

…So it really wasn’t a dream.

He let out a small breath inside the mask. The system had shut down with him. A rare grace, perhaps. He still didn’t know how long he’d been out.

Moondae tried to move, first twitching his fingers. No pain. Then his legs—still there. Good. His body felt oddly... light. As if it had been resting for far too long. Carefully, he reached for the oxygen mask, intending to pull it down and speak—only for the door to burst open before he could.

A flash of pink caught his eye.

“Moondae hyung!!”

The voice hit him like a hammer. Moondae blinked, startled. A young man stood frozen in the doorway—tall, athletic, his features a striking blend of Korean and something foreign. His hair, dyed a deep rose color, looked like it had been hastily styled. His eyes were wide, disbelieving.

...Who?

Moondae didn’t recognize him at all.

The stranger spun around, yelling over his shoulder. “Raebin! Moondae-hyung’s awake!”

A thundering of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. Seconds later, Raebin appeared—hair a mess, uniform jacket half-hanging off his shoulders, eyes wild with disbelief and pure relief. He practically shoved the pink-haired boy out of the way and dashed to Moondae’s bedside.

He reached out as if to touch him, then hesitated, fingers trembling.

“You’re awake! Oh my God, you’re awake—just, don’t move too much, okay?! I called the nurse already—no, I’m calling them again!” He jabbed the call button three times, fast. “They said your vitals were stabilizing, but no one knew when you’d actually wake up—three days, hyung, three entire days!”

Raebin crouched next to the bed, now rambling in panic-speed.

“Your guide resonance was gone. Completely wiped. Like flatlined, but not in a dying way? I mean, I guess that’s not the worst thing, but it was scary as hell! Eugene and I took shifts, and the doctors didn’t even know how to stabilize a drained guide at first—we had to bring in an actual regulation specialist just to make sure they weren’t using outdated suppression methods or something.”

Moondae blinked. That was… a lot of information. But Raebin wasn’t done.

“You had a fever on the first night, and then your blood pressure dropped for a few hours—that was terrifying. Eugene almost broke the vending machine from stress, not even joking. You wouldn’t wake up no matter what we tried, and we couldn’t pump you full of stimulant energy either, because you’re a guide and that would, like, fry your nervous system, and—oh God, I’m rambling again—”

Moondae raised a hand slowly. Just a small motion, and Raebin instantly shut up, wide-eyed.

“…Three days?” Moondae’s voice cracked under the oxygen mask.

Raebin nodded furiously. “Yeah. Three days. Since the attack.”

Attack.

Right. The esper. That maniac who tried to—

“And, uh—right!” Raebin turned and yanked the pink-haired boy forward like an excited puppy. “This is Cha Eugene! My best friend. He’s the one who helped me save you. You remember him, right? From the street outside the café? Tall guy, deadly aura, fists like steel?”

Eugene scratched his head, sheepish.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. “Glad you’re alive, hyung. That esper guy was a total psycho.”

Moondae studied him in silence.

Now that he was close, he could feel it—the same sharp aura he’d sensed that night. Controlled but powerful, like a lit fuse waiting for a match. He might’ve looked casual, but there was strength in the set of his shoulders. Dangerous strength.

So this was the esper who’d thrown his attacker clear off the street.

He saved my life.

“…Thank you,” Moondae managed, hoarse.

Eugene’s smile widened. “Anytime.”

Raebin beamed like a proud mother hen. “He’s the best, right?! I mean, obviously I helped too, but someone had to actually punch that creep out of orbit. Oh—speaking of, don’t worry about him. He’s in containment now. The Bureau's handling it.”

The Bureau.

Of course they were. Things must’ve gotten serious after that.

Moondae sighed and leaned back into the pillow. His body still felt hollow, but he wasn’t alone. That counted for something.

And in the back of his mind, the system hummed quietly.

-

[MISSION UPDATE]

Daily missions: Paused

Current status: Rest and Recovery

Progress will resume upon full physical stabilization.

 

Moondae closed his eyes briefly.

Just three days… and yet, it felt like something had changed.

And this time, it wasn’t just him.

A soft chime echoed in Moondae’s mind—the sound of the system reactivating fully now that he had regained consciousness. In front of his eyes, a glowing semi-transparent panel unfolded with elegant curves and pristine text:

[User Detected: Conscious State Restored] [System Reactivation: Complete] [Notification: New Profile Scanned]

 

[User Information] 

 

Name: Ryu Cheongwoo 

Age: 22 

Title: Esper Class S

 

Physical Strength: 100 

Mental Strength: 90 

Agility: 80 

Stamina: 100

 

Skill: [The Stone] – Passive skill activated. User maintains an exceptionally high level of emotional composure. Elemental water abilities increase in strength while active.

Moondae let out a long, inaudible sigh, lips pursed beneath the thin layer of the oxygen mask. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes or scoffing aloud, even though the temptation was strong.

This again.

He was not someone who got jealous easily—not really. He had lived too long with barely enough energy to spare for envy. But lately, he found himself wanting to punch whoever had decided he should be repeatedly dropped into the circles of the high-class esper elite, just to be constantly reminded of the disparity between them and himself.

Another one. Another Class S esper. From the same agency.

"Celestial Division again," he murmured, voice hoarse.

Ryu Cheongwoo entered with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need to be declared. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a finely tailored uniform bearing the unmistakable insignia of Celestial Division’s Security Head Office, he carried himself with a balance of confidence and calm. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, the lines of his face clean, handsome in a soft, classic way. Nothing about him seemed threatening. He smiled like a big brother meeting someone younger, and yet every inch of his posture screamed: I’m a leader.

Moondae leaned back into the pillows, his body feeling weightless and oddly charged. The contrast made him feel more like a piece of drifting seaweed than a patient recovering from near-death.

“Park Moondae, right?” Cheongwoo greeted gently, pulling a chair to sit beside the bed.

Moondae nodded, taking a moment to breathe. His throat still felt like it had been sandpapered, but at least he could talk now.

“I’m Ryu Cheongwoo, Class S esper. I’m currently the Head of the Security Division at Celestial Division. I hope I’m not disturbing you too much. I came as soon as your condition stabilized.”

“I figured.”

Cheongwoo chuckled lightly. “You’re sharper than the reports say.”

Moondae narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.

“I’ll get to the point,” Cheongwoo continued, folding his hands on his lap. “We’ve already spoken to Choi Jin, the café owner, as well as Raebin and Eugene—the two who intervened that night. Their accounts have been consistent so far. However, your statement is important to finalize our internal report.”

Moondae blinked slowly. “Eugene… might be in trouble?”

Cheongwoo gave a soft sigh, his features briefly losing their warmth in favor of professional concern. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

He leaned forward, not threateningly, but with an intensity that pulled Moondae’s attention.

“As you might know, esper-on-esper combat outside of designated monster-extermination zones is a serious offense. Regardless of intention or alignment. And unfortunately, Eugene is unregistered. He isn’t affiliated with any agency.”

Moondae’s heart sank a little. He remembered the look on Eugene’s face as he summoned his powers to protect him. Not angry. Not reckless. Just determined.

Cheongwoo continued, “If a non-affiliated esper uses their powers in a public space and causes property damage—even to protect someone—it’s viewed as a legal liability. Normally, that would mean sanctions. Investigations. In some cases, restrictions.”

Moondae clenched his jaw. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Cheongwoo agreed, his voice low. “It’s not. Which is why we need your account. Your version of what happened. You were the victim. You can confirm that Eugene’s actions were purely defensive—that he stepped in to prevent a kidnapping, not to cause destruction.”

“…He did.”

Cheongwoo offered a small smile. “Good. If you’re willing to give an official statement, I can ensure this doesn’t go on Eugene’s record. He’s a strong talent. I’d hate to see him discouraged because of bureaucracy.”

Moondae exhaled slowly. “Alright. I’ll talk.”

Cheongwoo nodded, then retrieved a slim device from the inner pocket of his coat. A black, rectangular tablet shimmered with an ethereal energy as it powered on.

“For the sake of transparency, I have to record your statement using official protocol. Just speak naturally. If anything becomes too much, we can pause.”

Moondae adjusted his sitting position slightly and nodded again.

The red light blinked on.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“… Park Moondae.”

“Thank you. Can you describe what happened on the night of the incident, beginning from when you first noticed something unusual?”

As Moondae began to speak, his voice was steady, even if inside he felt the prickle of something sharp—discomfort? Rage? Maybe both. He recounted every step, every face, every fragment of energy he’d felt slicing through the air. How the man who tried to abduct him spoke with unsettling calm. How Eugene stepped forward, his presence flaring like a fire set loose on a frozen lake. How the world had blurred, then gone black.

Throughout his story, Cheongwoo listened with the patience of someone used to long-winded field reports and painful truths. He never interrupted, only occasionally nodding, eyes sharp beneath his composed expression.

When Moondae finished, he leaned back again, chest slightly heaving.

“…That’s all I remember.”

“Thank you,” Cheongwoo said quietly. “That was more than enough.”

The tablet let out a soft chime as it powered down the recording.

He stood slowly, returning the device to his coat.

“I’ll submit this to the internal ethics review. Based on your statement, Eugene’s actions will be considered self-defense in assistance of a civilian target. He should be fine.”

Moondae looked down at his hands, fingers twitching slightly.

Cheongwoo added, “By the way… you did well. Most civilians would’ve been unconscious long before help arrived. Whatever training you’ve had—it shows.”

Moondae glanced at him, startled. He didn’t know whether to say thank you or deny it. In the end, he said nothing.

Cheongwoo smiled one last time. “Rest well. You’ll likely be discharged in another day or two. And if you ever feel the urge to punch the universe for putting you among esper elites, just know some of us didn’t ask to be here either.”

Moondae blinked at him.

“…Is that supposed to comfort me?”

Cheongwoo’s laughter rang low and genuine.

“A little. See you around, Moondae.”

The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving Moondae alone again. He looked up at the ceiling.

“…I still want to punch someone.”

The system chirped softly.

[Motivation increased by +5]

“…Not helping.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Ryu Cheongwoo, silence returned to the hospital room like a slow exhale. Moondae let his shoulders fall slightly, the tension from that encounter still lingering in the corners of his chest. He didn’t dislike Cheongwoo—there was nothing to dislike, really—but something about the man’s effortless charisma and commanding presence always made Moondae feel like a smudge on a polished mirror.

He had only a few seconds to breathe before the door opened again—this time with far less restraint.

“Hyung!” Raebin burst in first, eyes wide and voice full of relief. “He’s gone, right? We saw him walking down the hall! That guy is way too shiny for my eyes, I swear—”

“Raebin,” Eugene cut in, stepping into the room behind him with a more composed presence. “Keep your voice down.”

“Right. Hospital. Sorry.” Raebin gave an awkward grin, but his expression quickly sobered as his gaze landed on Moondae.

They both walked toward the bed, a bit hesitantly, as if uncertain of how welcome they were now that the storm had passed.

Eugene was the first to speak, his cheerful tone tempered by sincerity. “Hyung… I heard what you told that person.”

Moondae looked up at them, eyes soft with quiet recognition.

“Thanks to you, I’m not getting cuffed and dragged into a courtroom or worse.” Eugene’s grin flickered, fading into something more heartfelt. “Really, thank you.”

Raebin nodded quickly, standing beside Eugene, his fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve. “Yeah. I—I didn’t even do anything helpful that day, but I still got questioned like I’d set something on fire. You didn’t have to do that for us, but you still did, hyung.”

Moondae took a breath and shifted slightly to sit up straighter. The look he gave them was gentle, but clear—a kind of maturity neither Eugene nor Raebin were used to seeing in people around them.

“I should be the one thanking you,” he said softly. “And… apologizing.”

The two younger boys blinked in surprise.

“I wasn’t thinking straight that night,” Moondae continued, his tone calm and steady. “I acted on instinct. That was reckless. And because of my weakness, both of you got dragged into something you weren’t ready for.”

“But you—” Raebin tried to interrupt, his voice already rising in protest, but Moondae raised a hand, not harshly—just enough to make him pause.

“You’re not part of any agency,” Moondae said, looking at Eugene, then Raebin. “You don’t have legal protections. You shouldn’t have had to use your powers just to keep someone like me safe.”

Eugene looked down at his hands, his playful demeanor fading as the weight of Moondae’s words settled in.

Moondae’s voice dropped, even softer now. “Eugene, you could’ve gotten arrested. Raebin, you could’ve been blacklisted before you ever even applied to an agency. I was supposed to know better. “

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with understanding.

Raebin looked almost stunned, his lips parted slightly, eyes flicking to Eugene and back. “Hyung…” he said, barely audible, “you’re really saying sorry for our mistake? No, this is that guy fault!“

“Yes,this is absolutely that guy fault and No,” Moondae said with a small smile. “I’m taking responsibility for mine. That’s what adults should do.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Eugene let out a short, breathy laugh—like the release of something pent-up. “You’re… honestly, the first person who’s ever done that for us. And um, aren't you 20 years old? We're only a year apart and we're adults too.? 

Moondae was silent for a moment. Records did not make him forget anything, but he who was older than these two young men naturally had a habit that was difficult to keep up with. So, Moondae chose to remain silent.

Raebin nodded slowly, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “People usually just say it’s our fault for not knowing the rules. Or tell us to stay out of trouble like we asked for it.”

Moondae’s smile didn’t falter. He looked at the two of them with something warmer than fondness—something like quiet pride.

“Well,” he said, “from now on, if trouble comes for either of you, let me know first. I’ll do better next time.”

There was something about the way he said it—so simply, without drama—that made both Eugene and Raebin stand up a little straighter, as if suddenly understanding what it meant to be looked after.

Raebin sniffed once and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. “This is weird,” he mumbled. “Why do I feel like crying? Nobody even died.”

Eugene chuckled and bumped him lightly with his shoulder. “It’s because we finally met someone who doesn’t treat us like kids or liabilities.”

“Speak for yourself, you are a liability,” Raebin muttered.

“Yeah, but I’m your liability,” Eugene replied with a wink.

Moondae let out a soft laugh, the first genuine one in a long while. “You two are exhausting.”

Eugene grinned. “You’re stuck with us now, hyung.”

Raebin nodded, more firmly this time. “Definitely.”

As the last light of afternoon filtered through the blinds, casting golden lines across the walls, the three of them sat together in quiet understanding. The hospital room, once sterile and cold, now felt a little warmer—like a safe corner carved out of an uncertain world.

Chapter Text

The evening sun filtered through the blinds, painting soft golden lines across the hospital ceiling. Moondae sat quietly on the bed, fingers gently turning his phone over before finally pressing the call button. He didn’t have to wait long.

“...Moondae?”

The familiar, slightly timid voice came through—hesitant, but laced with worry.

“Ahyeon,” Moondae said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You heard?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a soft sigh.

“Sejin told me. Said Ryu Cheongwoo contacted the agency directly. I—I was still out in the valley when I got the message.”

Another pause.

“I thought you were okay, but still... I just—had to call.”

Moondae leaned back against the pillow, voice gentle. “I’m alright now. Really. Just a bit roughed up. It looks worse than it is.”

“You were attacked, Moondae.” Ahyeon’s voice barely rose above a whisper, but the worry behind it was undeniable. “By an esper. That’s not nothing.”

“I know.” Moondae glanced out the window, his expression soft. “But I wasn’t alone. Two people were there when it happened. They helped.”

“Oh?”

“They’re not from any agency,” Moondae explained. “One’s named Raebin—bit talkative, very sharp. The other’s Eugene. He’s young, kind of energetic, but surprisingly perceptive.”

There was a thoughtful silence from Ahyeon’s end before he spoke again.

“I don’t know them,” he said quietly. “But... I’m glad they were there.”

“Me too,” Moondae replied, his voice warm. “I owe them.”

“You really scared me,” Ahyeon murmured. “I—I kept imagining the worst.”

Moondae softened at that, his tone light but sincere. “I wouldn’t let myself die that easily. I still have to return the tea set you lent me, remember?”

A small laugh filtered through the line, quiet and a little bashful. “You never even opened it.”

“Exactly. It’d be rude to die before I at least brew one cup.”

Ahyeon laughed again, but then his voice turned more serious, if still wrapped in that soft, hesitant way of his.

“You should go back to the apartment.”

“Hm?”

“You still have the pass, don’t you?” he asked, almost shyly. “Even I don’t carry it with me when I’m on missions... but you’ve always had it.”

“I didn’t think you remembered,” Moondae said gently.

“I do,” Ahyeon said, barely above a whisper. “And I meant it. It’s still your place too.”

Moondae exhaled slowly, something warm and familiar blooming in his chest. He looked out the window again, this time really seeing the colors of the sunset.

“...Thank you, Ahyeon. I’ll go back. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.”

“Good.”

There was a small shuffle on the other end of the line, like Ahyeon adjusting his gear. “I’ll be back in a few tomorrow. Try to rest properly until then, okay?”

“I will.”

“And don’t let strange Espers near you anymore.”

Moondae chuckled. “I’ll put up a sign.”

“That’s not funny,” Ahyeon muttered, but there was a quiet fondness behind the words.

“Be safe out there,” Moondae said softly.

“You too.”

The line disconnected with a soft beep, and for a few moments, Moondae just sat there—holding the phone against his chest, his eyes a little brighter than before.

A soft knock came at the door before it slowly creaked open. Eugene’s head poked in first, grinning as always, with Raebin right behind him, balancing a plastic tray in each hand.

“Permission to deliver the finest hospital takeout?” Eugene said cheerfully.

“You brought food for me too?” Moondae asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” Eugene replied shamelessly, “these are all for us. You’re on doctor’s orders. No spicy food or fried anything.”

Raebin added as he walked in, “He actually tried to get tteokbokki but the nurse caught him. I told him he’d be banned from visiting rooms if he kept trying.”

Eugene gave Raebin a betrayed look. “Traitor.”

Moondae chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Eat. We’ll talk after.”

The two young mans took their seats near the small table at the foot of Moondae’s bed. The sound of chopsticks clicking and plastic bowls being unwrapped filled the room with a brief but warm kind of comfort. The kind that only came after surviving something chaotic.

Moondae waited until they were halfway through their meal before speaking again.

“How’s the situation going, Eugene?” he asked, voice gentle.

Eugene looked up mid-bite, blinking. “You mean... with the officials?”

Moondae nodded. “Have they made a decision?”

Eugene chewed slowly, thoughtful. “Not officially. Nothing’s signed or stamped. But they already know I’m an Esper. A pretty strong one, they said. Could be high-class once I go through proper testing.”

Raebin glanced over, mouth still half full. “He melted half a parking structure—of course he’s high class.”

Moondae’s gaze stayed steady on Eugene. “They’re debating where to send you, right?”

Eugene’s smile dimmed, just a little. He put his chopsticks down.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “There’s... a lot of talk. Most of it happens around me, not to me. But Cheongwoo—Ryu Cheongwoo hyung-nim—he said something.”

Moondae raised an eyebrow. “What did he say?”

“He said... if I want this to be handled more smoothly, I should consider joining the Celestial Division.”

Raebin stopped eating.

Eugene glanced at Moondae, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know that sounds like marketing. Like, join us and your problems go away—super shady, right?”

Moondae didn’t interrupt.

“But,” Eugene continued slowly, “he wasn’t pushy about it. He just... laid it out like an option. And honestly, he feels like someone who can actually make things happen. Like, he knows the system, and Celestial Division isn’t exactly some random backstreet company either. It’s legit.”

Moondae leaned back slightly, arms resting across his stomach. “And it helps that someone else is considering the same place?”

Eugene looked down, sheepish. “Yeah.”

Raebin wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked up. “I already decided,” he said, voice firm and clear. “It’s final.”

Moondae turned his gaze to the young man. “What made you so sure?”

“My grandma gave me her recommendation,” Raebin started, “then I did my own research—checked articles, old records, team lineups, case reports, everything I could find. It’s one of the few agencies that doesn’t just chase big money jobs. They’ve got an internal support system and a medical team that doesn’t suck.”

He glanced at Eugene before continuing, his tone more thoughtful now.

“But the day when we first met helped too. That conversation with you. It reminded me why I wanted to use my powers in the first place. I wanna help people, but I need a place that’ll help me too. Help me grow, stay alive, stay sane.”

Moondae didn’t respond immediately. His eyes lingered on Raebin with a kind of quiet pride that didn’t need to be spoken out loud. Then slowly, he nodded.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

Raebin froze. “Huh?”

“I said I’m proud of you.” Moondae smiled faintly. “Both of you, really. You’re thinking clearly. That’s not easy in situations like this.”

Raebin blinked rapidly. “You’re gonna make me cry for real, don’t do that.”

Eugene snorted. “Yeah, he actually might. He gets emotional when people say nice things.”

“I do not—!” Raebin started, but stopped himself, already flustered.

Moondae chuckled again, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Later that evening, after the last checks by the nurse and signing a few forms, Moondae gathered his things and left the hospital.

There was no dramatic farewell. Just a quiet sense of completion.

Eugene insisted on driving, and Raebin tagged along for company. The three of them moved through the night like they had known each other longer than a few days. The car ride was filled with light chatter—nothing too deep, just enough to keep the quiet from taking over.

When they finally reached the apartment complex, Raebin leaned forward from the back seat, eyebrows raised.

“Wait—this is where you’re staying?”

Moondae chuckled. “Why does everyone keep reacting like that?”

“Because it’s basically a luxury hotel,” Raebin muttered, wide-eyed. “You sure you’re not secretly a chaebol heir or something?”

“Far from it.” Moondae opened the door. “I’m just staying with a friend until I get placed in the dorm.”

Eugene whistled low. “Some friend.”

Moondae laughed, stepping out. Before shutting the door, he leaned in slightly. “Eugene—make sure you call Ryu Cheongwoo soon. Start the process. Don’t let things hang.”

“I will,” Eugene nodded.

Raebin gave a thumbs up. “We’ll do it together.”

Moondae offered a small wave, and the two younger men responded with exaggerated, enthusiastic ones, shouting their goodbyes as the car slowly pulled away into the night.

The front gate clicked open smoothly with his passcard. The lobby, with its soft lighting and faint scent of lavender from the diffuser, welcomed him back like an old friend.

Inside the apartment, nothing had changed. The air was still warm, the lighting dim but pleasant.

Moondae let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His bag slipped off his shoulder with a quiet thud, landing by the door. He didn’t even bother going to the bedroom. The couch looked too comfortable to ignore.

He collapsed onto it gently, the plush cushions catching him like a memory.

The world outside felt far away now.

Thoughts drifted—about Eugene’s hesitant hope, Raebin’s determination, the calm way Ahyeon spoke to him earlier.

And then, silence.

Soft breathing.

Sleep came not with resistance, but like a quiet friend arriving to sit beside him.

Moondae slept, surrounded by the comfort of a place that still felt temporary… but for tonight, it was enough.

Seon Ahyeon jogged up the steps of the apartment building, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. The message still blinked on his phone screen:

"I’m home now."

Sent by Park Moondae barely an hour ago.

Originally, Ahyeon had planned to visit the hospital after wrapping up his assignments at the agency. He even bought a small fruit basket along the way, thinking it would be a nice gesture.

But his plans were quietly overturned.

Fumbling with the passcode, Ahyeon pushed open the door, his heart beating a little faster—not from the short run, but from an anxious, protective instinct he hadn't yet learned to explain.

The apartment greeted him with its usual quietness, warm and lived-in. The faint scent of fresh laundry and cedar from the diffuser lingered in the air.

And there, right in the middle of the living room, sprawled across the couch like a dropped marionette, was Moondae.

Still clad in that familiar yellow hoodie—slightly oversized on his frame—he was curled up loosely, one arm hanging off the side of the sofa, his backpack and a few belongings haphazardly scattered around him.

Ahyeon’s steps slowed, his urgency bleeding into something softer. He couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You really just... dropped wherever you landed, huh?” he whispered fondly under his breath.

Careful not to make noise, Ahyeon set the fruit basket aside and crouched down. One by one, he gathered Moondae’s things: a jacket tangled with a notebook, a phone charger half-spilling from the open bag, and a few crumpled receipts. He tucked them neatly into the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Then he fetched a light blanket from the linen closet—a soft gray one Moondae had once said "smelled like clean rain."

With a gentle touch, Ahyeon draped the blanket over the sleeping figure, making sure it covered him properly from shoulders to feet.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the steady rise and fall of Moondae’s breathing.

He must’ve been exhausted...

Ahyeon let out a small breath, the adrenaline that had propelled him home finally fading. His own body ached with fatigue, but somehow, seeing Moondae safe and breathing easily made it feel bearable.

Leaving him to rest, Ahyeon moved to the bathroom. The water was warm against his skin, the shower steam clouding up the mirror as he scrubbed away the day's exhaustion. When he emerged, hair damp and dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, he peeked back into the living room.

Moondae hadn’t moved an inch.

A glance at the clock showed it was already nearing dawn. The sky outside was just beginning to soften into a paler shade of blue.

Ahyeon’s stomach gave a low rumble, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything decent since noon.

“…They’ll forgive me if I don’t show up at the agency today,” he murmured to himself with a tired chuckle.

Padding quietly to the kitchen, he pulled out a pre-packed salad and a protein milkshake from the fridge. He lingered for a moment, eyeing the instant ramen packets tempting him from the cupboard.

If there was ever a perfect time for junk food...

He shook his head and sighed.

No. Be good, Seon Ahyeon.

He grabbed a fork and his drink and carried everything to the living room, lowering himself carefully onto the floor, across from the couch where Moondae slept.

The soft crunch of salad filled the air, the sound somehow making the silence feel warmer rather than breaking it. Occasionally, Ahyeon would glance up from his food, just to reassure himself that Moondae was still breathing steadily, still safe.

A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

Only a few days ago, we were fighting to keep you safe, he thought. And here you are again, thrown into danger.

Moondae’s slightly messy hair fell over his forehead, half-covering his closed eyes. His face, illuminated by the faint light spilling from the kitchen, looked peaceful. Vulnerable, even.

Ahyeon finished his meal, set the empty bowl and cup aside, and quietly moved closer.

Kneeling beside the sofa, he sat on the thick, soft carpet, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off Moondae’s body. His hand hesitated in the air for a moment before settling gently on the blanket covering Moondae’s arm.

Closing his own eyes, Ahyeon summoned his Esper energy.

Unlike the sharp, crackling surge he usually summoned during combat, he molded this energy into something softer—something nurturing. A quiet, healing pulse that he let seep into Moondae carefully, layer by layer, like morning dew sinking into dry earth.

The sensation was subtle, barely a brush against the skin, but Ahyeon poured as much sincerity into it as he could.

Heal well, he thought. Rest properly, for once.

Minutes passed in a lull of warm energy and steady breathing.

And then, perhaps because the atmosphere was too peaceful, or because his own body had been screaming for rest far too long, Ahyeon’s consciousness began to drift.

Still seated on the floor, he leaned closer unconsciously, his head resting lightly against Moondae’s hand, using it like a makeshift pillow.

The warmth, the soft scent of fresh laundry and lingering body soap, the low hum of two steady heartbeats—all of it wrapped around Ahyeon like a lullaby.

Before he realized it, Seon Ahyeon, too, had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There, in the living room lit only by the faint pre-dawn light, two battle-worn souls finally allowed themselves to rest.

Together.

Chapter Text

Moondae stirred from his sleep when he felt something soft brushing against his hand. His brows furrowed slightly in confusion. Slowly, he blinked open his eyes, adjusting to the dim, early morning light filtering into the apartment.

The first thing he saw was a mess of tousled platinum blonde hair. Seon Ahyeon was curled up on the floor beside the sofa, asleep in an uncomfortable position, his head resting against Moondae’s hand as if it were a pillow.

For a moment, Moondae simply stared, still too groggy to process the scene. Then, instinctively, he whispered hoarsely, "Ahyeon, wake up. Go sleep in your bed."

He didn’t know why the man was sleeping here, like this — but Seon Ahyeon's face looked so peaceful, a tiny, unconscious smile playing on his lips.

"Hmm? Moondae? You’re awake?" Ahyeon murmured sleepily as he stirred, rubbing his face gently with one hand. His movements were slow and lazy, like a cat waking from a long nap.

"You should sleep in your room," Moondae repeated, his voice a little firmer this time.

"Later," Ahyeon yawned, stretching his stiff muscles with a soft groan. "Are you hungry? Want breakfast?"

Moondae shifted his gaze toward the clock hanging on the wall. It was well past the usual breakfast time — in fact, it was almost noon. He raised an eyebrow in mild amusement.

Seeing Moondae’s expression, Ahyeon laughed sheepishly, running a hand through his messy hair. "Guess it’s lunch now... I can order something?"

Moondae shook his head. "I’ll cook," he said simply, already pushing himself off the sofa.

With lazy movements, they both headed to the kitchen. The cozy clatter of kitchenware filled the apartment as Moondae started gathering ingredients. Ahyeon sat on a stool at the counter, chin resting on his palm, watching Moondae with half-lidded eyes still heavy from sleep.

"You’re feeling better?" Ahyeon asked gently, his voice soft.

"Yeah," Moondae replied as he pulled out some kimchi and leftover rice. He moved with practiced ease, heating the pan and beginning to stir-fry the ingredients.

"And... what about the incident?" Ahyeon asked, his gaze serious now, though he kept his tone light.

Moondae glanced over his shoulder before returning to his cooking. "It was an esper from EG Agency," he said casually. "Apparently, he’d just been expelled that day for ongoing misconduct that kept damaging their reputation."

He cracked an egg into the rice, the sizzle filling the air.

"He’s a Class A esper. He suffered an injury during a mission and... no guide wanted to stabilize him anymore because he kept forcing connections. According to what he said, he recognized me because I’m often volunteering at different places."

Moondae stirred the fried rice thoughtfully, the rich smell of kimchi filling the small kitchen.

"As for why he showed up at the café... there wasn’t any real reason. He was drunk, saw a crowd, and just... acted. I guess when espers start showing early signs of overload, their mental stability just spirals out of control."

He plated the kimchi fried rice onto two dishes, placing them on the counter.

Ahyeon nodded, accepting the explanation. "Yeah," he said. "Espers with early overload symptoms become extremely sensitive. Even the smallest trigger can set them off."

He picked up a spoon, twirling it absentmindedly. "That’s why it’s almost impossible to manage an esper once they’ve started to overload."

Moondae sat down across from him, sliding a plate toward Ahyeon.

"For now, I’m just glad you’re okay," Ahyeon added, smiling warmly.

As they ate quietly, the spicy aroma of kimchi still lingering in the air, Ahyeon glanced at Moondae, who was chewing slowly, seemingly lost in thought.

“…It was forced energy extraction,” Moondae said, breaking the silence. His tone was calm, but there was something cold and distant in his eyes. “He didn’t establish a bond. Just… took it.”

Ahyeon looked up sharply, a crease forming between his brows. “No bond?”

Moondae shook his head. “If he’d forced a bond, things could’ve been much worse. My condition, the aftermath, the connection—it would’ve been chaotic. Possibly irreversible.” He took another bite of his fried rice, his gaze dropping to the plate. “I was lucky.”

Ahyeon’s fingers tightened around his spoon, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That kind of attack... it’s predatory.” His voice was low. “To forcefully take energy from someone without consent... it’s not just dangerous. It’s violating.”

Moondae didn’t reply immediately. He simply nodded once.

Trying to ease the atmosphere, Ahyeon set down his spoon gently and asked, “What about Raebin and Eugene? Were they… there?”

Moondae looked up. “Yeah. That night, they had just gotten back from an internet café. They’d been researching agencies and browsing for hours.” His eyes softened slightly. “They were heading home when they noticed people panicking on the streets. Screaming. Chaos. And they saw me being shoved into that van.”

Ahyeon’s breath caught slightly at the image.

“Eugene reacted on instinct,” Moondae continued. “He unleashed his power immediately—sent the esper flying back with a burst of force. No hesitation, no fear. Just action.” His tone was filled with quiet admiration.

Ahyeon exhaled in relief. “They were in the right place at the right time.”

Moondae nodded. “Yeah. I’m grateful. That’s why I did what I could to make sure Eugene wasn’t penalized for... reacting. Technically, he caused property damage. Some nearby storefronts were affected when the esper’s barrier shattered. But I pushed to clear his name.”

“Good,” Ahyeon said, a smile forming slowly on his lips. “So… he chose to join an agency? For backup?”

“Ryu Cheongwoo extended an offer,” Moondae said, setting his chopsticks down. “To join the Celestial Division. Eugene accepted. And since Raebin was already planning to join them too, it made the decision easier. He didn’t want to delay it any longer.”

Ahyeon’s shoulders relaxed, visibly relieved. “That’s good. It sounds like everything worked out neatly, then.”

Moondae gave a small, amused huff. “Neatly isn’t the word I’d use, but... yeah. It’s resolved, more or less.”

Ahyeon took a final bite, chewing thoughtfully before asking, “What about Choi Jin noona? Are you going to check on the café today?”

Moondae blinked at the question, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to go. I’ll head there after this.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Ahyeon said quickly.

Moondae gave him a look — not quite questioning, but curious.

Ahyeon cleared his throat and continued with a small, almost sheepish smile, “I’m worried about Choi Jin noona too. And I want to make sure the place is okay. You know, see if they need help.”

Moondae didn’t argue. Instead, he gave a single nod, then stood up to gather their empty plates. “Alright. Let’s go together.”

Ahyeon’s smile widened a little as he got up to help clear the table. There was something unspoken in the way they moved around each other—familiar, easy, like two pieces settling into place.

When they arrived at the café, the aftermath of the chaos was still everywhere. Tables and chairs were pushed into messy piles along the walls, a few broken pieces of wood and glass glinting under the weak morning light. The atmosphere was heavy, but there was also a strange, quiet resilience in the air, like the place was stubbornly refusing to stay broken.

Standing near the counter, Choi Jin was busy sweeping shards of glass into a dustpan. She looked up when she heard the door chime.

“Moondae!” she called out, her face brightening instantly.

Park Moondae stepped inside, guilt pressing down on his shoulders. He bowed deeply.

“I’m really sorry, noona… because of me, your café…”

Before he could finish, Choi Jin had dropped the dustpan and crossed the room in quick strides. Without hesitation, she grabbed Moondae into a fierce hug.

“Are you stupid?” she said sharply, her voice trembling slightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong! Don’t you dare apologize for surviving!”

Moondae froze for a second, startled by her sudden outburst. Then, awkwardly, he lifted his arms and returned the hug, patting her back once.

Choi Jin pulled away, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Her eyes were misty, but she blinked the tears away. “I was so worried. When I heard what happened… I thought…” She shook her head fiercely. “Forget it. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Ahyeon, standing nearby, smiled softly at the scene but didn’t intrude. He quietly started picking up some chairs that had been knocked over.

After the emotional welcome, the three of them moved into a more casual rhythm, cleaning and talking. Moondae and Ahyeon helped without hesitation, picking up debris, wiping surfaces, and trying to put the place back into some kind of order.

As Moondae wiped down a battered table, he glanced at Choi Jin.

“What about compensation? Did the insurance go through?” he asked carefully.

Choi Jin smiled, a little tired but genuine.

“Yeah. I just got the money yesterday,” she said, tying her hair up into a messy bun to keep it out of her face. “I’m planning to buy replacements today. Tables, chairs, some decorations. Maybe even a better coffee machine if I can stretch the budget.”

Moondae straightened up, tossing a broken chair leg into the trash pile.

“Do you need help? I can go with you.”

Ahyeon nodded in agreement from across the room. “Me too. We don’t have any schedules today.”

Choi Jin chuckled, waving her hand dismissively.

“It’s fine. I already dragged my little brother into it. Besides, you two have your own things to worry about.”

“Your brother?” Ahyeon asked, curious.

As if on cue, a door near the back of the café creaked open. A young man stepped out, looking half-asleep and wholly annoyed. His hair was a mess of black, sticking up at odd angles, and he wore a simple hoodie and jeans.

He looked young — maybe a year or two younger than Eugene and Raebin — but there was something sharper in his eyes, something guarded.

His gaze swept the room, landing on Moondae and Ahyeon. For a brief moment, their eyes met.

And then, quite audibly, the young man huffed in clear annoyance.

Moondae blinked, thrown off. What? he thought, puzzled. Why does he already look like he hates me? We’ve never even met before.

Choi Jin sighed and beckoned him over.

“This grumpy kid is my little brother. Choi Wongil.”

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Wongil-ie, greet your hyungs properly.”

Wongil clicked his tongue softly but obeyed, bowing stiffly.

“Good afternoon, hyung-nim,” he muttered, the formality sounding forced.

Moondae and Ahyeon exchanged a brief, awkward look before bowing back politely, not really sure how to react.

Wongil said nothing more, stepping back toward the counter with a scowl, arms crossed.

“Well,” Choi Jin said with a strained smile, “We better get moving if we want to buy everything before the stores get crowded.”

She grabbed her jacket from behind the counter and slung it over her shoulder, motioning to her brother. Wongil dragged his feet as he followed her out of the café.

“Take care, noona,” Moondae called after her.

“You too!” she replied brightly, tossing a wink over her shoulder. Wongil didn’t even bother to look back.

Once they were gone, Ahyeon let out a low whistle, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“He really doesn’t like you, huh?”

Moondae gave a small, humorless laugh.

“Apparently not.”

They looked around the café one last time, now at least a little tidier than when they arrived, and decided it was time to leave.

"Let's go," Moondae said, feeling the weight of reality pulling him back. "We still need to finish the registration."

"Yeah. My car's outside," Ahyeon said, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

They walked out into the bright afternoon sun, the air brisk but pleasant. Ahyeon unlocked his car — a sleek black sedan that looked almost too mature for someone his age — and they both slid inside.

As Ahyeon pulled out of the parking lot, Moondae leaned his head against the window, watching the scenery blur past.

The ride to Celestial Division was uneventful, but a quiet sense of anticipation lingered in the air between them. Ahyeon drove steadily, while Moondae sat with his hands clasped together, resting on his lap, staring out the window.

The Celestial Division building soon loomed ahead — a striking structure of white marble and dark crystal panels, gleaming under the afternoon sun. At the very top, an emblem shaped like a winged star caught the light, a silent testament to the agency’s pride and long-standing history in managing espers and guides alike.

They entered through a separate underground garage — a reserved area meant only for registered personnel and prospective candidates. As soon as they stepped out, the atmosphere shifted subtly. The air here felt... denser, yet paradoxically cleaner, almost humming with restrained power.

The elevator leading to the main lobby required identification even to open. Ahyeon flashed a simple card, and the door slid open with a soft mechanical whisper.

The lobby of Celestial Division was grand without being ostentatious. Smooth, seamless white floors stretched out before them, reflecting the soft light from the ceiling above. Transparent screens hovered above the reception desks, displaying information about departments and upcoming synchronization schedules.

People moved around the space — some in smart uniforms, others in casual attire — but every single one of them had an unmistakable air about them: they were either espers or guides.

The main reception desk curved around a glowing centerpiece that resembled a sculpture — two intertwined streams of light, representing the balance between esper and guide.

A receptionist wearing a neatly pressed navy uniform greeted them. Her badge indicated that she was a senior guide.

“Welcome to Celestial Division. May I have your names, please?” she asked, her tone both formal and polite.

Ahyeon stepped forward slightly.

“This is Park Moondae. He's here for first-time registration as a guide.”

The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving swiftly over a floating keyboard projected above the desk.

“I see. Since you don't have a recommending agent listed, we’ll proceed with an independent registration. Please fill out the preliminary form first."

A slim, translucent tablet floated toward Moondae, stopping politely within reach.

Moondae bowed a little in thanks and accepted the device. He stood off to the side with Ahyeon, who quietly explained the parts of the form he wasn’t familiar with — things like prior affiliation (none), training certificates (none), emergency contact (left blank for now).

Once the form was completed and submitted, the receptionist smiled gently.

"Thank you. Now, please proceed to the Verification Room — fifth floor, Room 507. A basic compatibility and capacity scan is required before official registration can be finalized."

She handed them a slim white access card shimmering faintly under the lobby lights.

Ahyeon led the way toward the elevators again. As they passed security, Moondae noticed how the guards didn’t even need to scan anyone physically — they seemed able to sense identification levels naturally. It made sense. This place wasn’t built for normal people.

Inside the private elevator, there were no buttons. Instead, an AI voice asked:

“Destination?”

“Fifth floor, Verification Room 507,” Ahyeon answered.

The ride was smooth and almost eerily silent, only a faint hum surrounding them.

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into a quieter, more clinical area. The walls were softer in color here — muted grays and soft blues — designed to ease nerves.

Signs along the corridor pointed towards various rooms: Calibration Lab, Resonance Adjustment Wing, Medical Response Unit, and, finally, Verification Room 507.

They approached the door, and Ahyeon pressed the access panel. With a silent hiss, the door slid open.

Inside, the room was surprisingly warm and bright, more like a private consultation space than a lab. Soft carpeting muffled their footsteps. Sunlight streamed through a wide window behind a set of softly humming machines.

A middle-aged woman in a tailored dark blue uniform stood waiting with a tablet in hand. Her sharp eyes softened slightly when she saw them.

"Park Moondae?" she asked, confirming.

"Yes, ma'am," Moondae answered politely, giving a small bow.

"Good. Please have a seat here," she motioned to a comfortable-looking chair surrounded by floating devices that looked almost like ornaments at first glance. "We’ll be conducting your initial guide verification today."

Moondae sat down carefully.

The woman adjusted the settings on her tablet.

"No need to be nervous. We’re just measuring your synchronization wavelength and basic resonance capability. Please relax. Breathe normally."

Ahyeon stood quietly at the back of the room, observing but not interfering.

The floating devices activated, casting soft blue light across the space. Moondae closed his eyes as instructed, focusing inward.

Almost immediately, he felt something stir deep within him. A familiar yet subtle warmth — the natural guidance field that had always been part of him, but he’d never consciously examined before.

It flowed outward gently, like the comforting warmth of sunlight after rain.

The scan lasted less than ten minutes.

When it was complete, the woman smiled at her tablet.

"Results are in. Park Moondae — Guide Classification: Class C."

She turned the tablet slightly so they could both see.

"Stable output. Consistent emotional regulation. Low volatility. Very good for an independent applicant," she said with a hint of approval. "Your official registration card will be issued within 48 hours. Until then, please use this temporary ID."

She handed Moondae a thin black card embossed with Celestial Division’s emblem.

As he accepted it, a subtle weight settled into his chest — but it wasn’t unpleasant.

It was real.

As Moondae accepted the temporary ID, a soft chime echoed—not from the room, but from somewhere deep within his consciousness.

A translucent blue window appeared briefly before his eyes, invisible to everyone else.

 [SYSTEM NOTICE]

Congratulations, Park Moondae.

You have officially registered as a Guide under Celestial Division.

 

[Main Mission 1/2 Completed]

Register officially with an esper-guide organization: ✓

[Main Mission Remaining]

Perform a successful non-permanent bonding with an A-Class Esper within the designated timeframe.

Warning: Failure to complete all Main Missions will result in a fatal consequence.

Good luck, Guide Park Moondae.

The window blinked twice and faded out as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a faint, lingering sense of urgency.

Moondae exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

Even now, the system felt almost dreamlike — a secret tied closely to his survival. It didn’t intrude often, but every time it did, the stakes were impossible to ignore.

Ahyeon, noticing the slight pause, tilted his head.

"You okay?" he asked casually.

Moondae gave a faint smile. "Yeah. Just... realizing it’s official now."

Ahyeon chuckled softly and clapped his hand lightly against Moondae’s shoulder.

"Congratulations. Not everyone passes the verification that smoothly on their first try. You're better than you think."

A small, embarrassed flush crept onto Moondae’s face, but he simply bowed his head slightly in thanks.

"Come on," Ahyeon added, grinning. "Let's grab something to eat after this. First official day as a guide deserves a small celebration."

Moondae nodded, clutching the temporary ID tighter in his hand.

One mission down.

One mission to go.

And failure… wasn’t an option.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria of Celestial Division was larger than Moondae had expected.

Sunlight streamed through wide, spotless windows, reflecting off rows of polished tables and chairs. The atmosphere was oddly relaxed for a place that housed some of the most dangerous individuals in the country — esper, guides, and staff alike.

Ahyeon led the way inside, casually pushing open the double doors.

"You can eat anything you want here," he said with a small smile, glancing at Moondae. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all provided. You don't have to pay for those. They make sure all the meals meet nutritional standards, especially considering the physical strain we go through."

Moondae nodded, taking in the sight of several counters filled with freshly prepared dishes. There were trays of rice, meats, vegetables, soups, pastries, fruits, and even a separate section just for desserts. It looked like a luxurious hotel buffet more than anything else.

Ahyeon continued, "But—" He pointed toward the far end of the cafeteria, where several gleaming refrigerators were lined up neatly against the wall.

"If you want snacks or special drinks—the ones in those fridges—you have to buy them with coins."

Moondae tilted his head slightly. "Coins?"

"Yeah," Ahyeon chuckled. "You can buy coins at a machine near the entrance. Then you can exchange them for premium items—energy drinks, imported desserts, that kind of thing. They're not expensive, but still, they're considered 'extras' outside the free meal service."

Moondae quietly committed the information to memory.

It was strangely efficient—strict but reasonable.

Together, they moved along the food counters, picking out dishes. Moondae ended up with a plate of rice, grilled chicken, sautéed vegetables, and a slice of strawberry cake he couldn't resist. Ahyeon grabbed a similar spread, balancing a bowl of spicy stew on his tray.

They settled at an empty table by the window, where the midday sun made the atmosphere feel warm but not overbearing.

For a moment, they simply ate in comfortable silence.

Then, after a few bites, curiosity got the better of Moondae.

"Ahyeon," he said, glancing up at Ahyeon, "is the entry test really that easy? I thought there'd be... more. Maybe a control test or something."

Ahyeon paused with his chopsticks midway to his mouth, thinking.

He set them down carefully before answering.

"Honestly? I’m not entirely sure about all the details," he admitted. "But the thing is, anyone who steps through those doors to register is already either an esper or a guide. It's not like a normal job application. If you’re born with the ability, that itself is proof enough."

Moondae frowned slightly. "Then why do they make it sound so exclusive?"

"Ah," Ahyeon said, smiling wryly. "That's the real barrier. It’s not about whether you’re a guide or an esper. It’s about how you get here."

He leaned forward a little, lowering his voice.

"Most people can't just walk in and sign up. You need someone—an official from Celestial Division, usually from the recruitment team—to find you first. They approach you, give you a card, and invite you to join."

Moondae blinked in realization.

"So without an invitation, you can't even reach this point."

"Exactly," Ahyeon said, stabbing a piece of meat. "It's to make sure the people coming in are legitimate. Not just random civilians who think they're awakened, or people who might cause trouble later."

Moondae nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

Ahyeon went on, tapping his tray lightly with his chopsticks.

"For example, Raebin and Eugene — they’re here because Ryu Cheongwoo personally scouted and recommended them."

"And you," Ahyeon added, flashing a small smile, "were put under my name and Sejin’s."

Moondae nearly dropped his spoon.

"Wait, both of you?"

"Yeah." Ahyeon shrugged as if it were no big deal. "Normally one is enough, but having two active members vouch for you? It smooths everything out."

Moondae stared down at his food, momentarily overwhelmed.

Sejin and Ahyeon had vouched for him, just like that.

Without making it feel heavy, without asking for anything in return.

It was a small, unspoken show of trust.

"The higher the rank of the person recommending you," Ahyeon said, popping a piece of meat into his mouth, "the easier the verification process. So you’re lucky. Two established members recommending you meant they didn’t question your eligibility at all."

Moondae managed a small, awkward smile. "I… I see. Thank you."

"Please don't mention it," Ahyeon replied easily. "We just didn't want to lose you. Simple as that."

The sunlight outside shifted slightly, casting soft patterns over the cafeteria floor. Around them, esper and guides laughed, chatted, and ate as if nothing unusual was happening.

Just as Park Moondae and Seon Ahyeon finished their lunch and were starting to relax a little, a sudden burst of energy approached their table.

"Hyung!"

A familiar voice called out across the cafeteria.

Moondae looked up just in time to see Cha Eugene rushing over, practically dragging Kim Raebin along with him.

"You registered today?" Eugene asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he stood next to their table, tray in hand but clearly forgetting about it in his enthusiasm.

Moondae, never one for dramatics, simply nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I came with Seon Ahyeon. He's the apartment owner from last night."

Eugene's face lit up in recognition.

"Oh! Rich hyung-nim!" he exclaimed happily, turning to Ahyeon with a huge grin.

"Nice to meet you! I'm Cha Eugene!"

Caught off guard by the sudden attention, Ahyeon scrambled to put down his utensils and wiped his hands hastily on a napkin before accepting Eugene’s offered handshake.

"Seon Ahyeon," he said, voice a little higher than usual from nerves.

"I heard about you two from Moondae... Thank you for saving him."

His words were sincere, even if his delivery was a little shaky.

Before Eugene could reply, Raebin stepped forward with bright eyes and a polite bow.

"I'm Kim Raebin! Thank you as well, Seon Ahyeon hyung-nim, for giving Moondae-hyung a place to rest!"

His enthusiasm was genuine, his posture impeccable as he bowed nearly 90 degrees.

Startled, Ahyeon hurriedly returned the bow with the same degree of earnestness, and they ended up mirroring each other awkwardly for a few seconds—both bent at nearly perfect right angles.

Eugene laughed openly at the sight, clapping his hands together in amusement.

Meanwhile, Moondae frowned slightly, watching the chaos unfold before him.

He couldn't understand why they were all treating this like a grand, emotional event.

After all, wasn’t everyone just doing what they could in the moment?

Before he could say anything, another, much calmer presence approached their table.

"Good to see you again, Park Moondae-ssi," came a deep, composed voice.

Turning his head, Moondae found himself looking up at Ryu Cheongwoo, who stood there with a slight smile, holding his own lunch tray.

"Good to see you too, Ryu Cheongwoo-ssi," Moondae replied, straightening instinctively.

"I’m doing much better than yesterday."

Cheongwoo gave a soft, approving smile at the response.

Then, his gaze shifted briefly toward the small group now chatting animatedly—Raebin, Eugene, and Ahyeon somehow launching into another round of thanking and praising Moondae like he wasn't sitting right there.

He chuckled lightly and leaned down slightly, voice low so that only Moondae could hear.

"They really like you."

Moondae, already mid-sip of his water, choked violently.

He coughed and struggled to breathe for a moment, cheeks flushing from more than just the lack of air.

Without missing a beat, Ahyeon immediately grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to him. Then, with hesitant but sincere movements, he patted Moondae’s back gently, trying to help him recover.

Cheongwoo’s smile deepened ever so slightly, clearly pleased with the scene, though he remained silent.

Moondae, on the other hand, did his best to ignore the victorious glint in Cheongwoo’s eyes as he finally managed to catch his breath.

He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief, shooting a narrow-eyed glance at Cheongwoo, who merely sipped his drink with all the innocence of a man who had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Meanwhile, Raebin and Eugene, blissfully unaware of the tension, continued their lively chatter with Ahyeon, now animatedly explaining how they had trained and prepared for today's evaluations, adding exaggerated hand gestures for emphasis.

At some point, even Ahyeon began to smile a little more naturally, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as he laughed at Eugene’s ridiculous impressions of the instructors they had encountered.

The atmosphere around their table turned warm—unexpectedly familiar, like the beginning of something lasting.

Moondae, silently watching it unfold, allowed himself a small, nearly invisible smile as he picked up his chopsticks again.

Maybe... this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

In the soft afternoon light filtering through the windows of Ahyeon’s apartment, three figures were scattered around the living space. Park Moondae sat cross-legged on the rug, Seon Ahyeon perched quietly on the couch nearby, and Lee Sejin—who had just returned from a mission—stood near the door, lazily tossing a heavy-looking tote bag toward Moondae.

Catching it out of reflex, Moondae arched an eyebrow.

"...Why are you here? Didn’t you just come back from a mission?" he asked, pulling the tote onto his lap.

Instead of answering, Sejin just grinned, the same idiotic grin he wore 90% of the time, and motioned for him to open the bag.

Moondae sighed and unzipped it. Inside, neatly packed, were a few sets of official uniforms: the navy and black ones used for major missions under the Celestial Division. There were also pairs of thick socks, a new set of polished boots, and—most importantly—a fresh ID card gleaming under the apartment light. His name was printed on it along with his new access credentials.

"You forgot these," Sejin said casually, plopping down beside him. "I happened to see your gear piled up at the agency earlier. Thought it’d be faster if I brought them here. Plus, I wanted to check how you were doing."

"Thanks," Moondae replied, equally casual, though a spark of genuine appreciation flickered in his eyes.

"Do the shoes fit?" Ahyeon asked softly, leaning forward with a hint of worry.

Moondae, curious, pulled off his house slippers and tried on the boots. To his mild surprise, they fit perfectly—almost like a second skin. He looked up and wordlessly gave a thumbs-up, which made Ahyeon visibly relax, his shoulders unclenching as a soft, relieved smile broke across his face.

"Moondae Moondae," Sejin suddenly called out, his voice carrying a strange seriousness despite the lingering smile on his face.

"Hmm?" Moondae hummed, glancing at him suspiciously.

Even though Sejin’s grin was intact, there was a new sharpness to him, something Moondae couldn’t quite name. His posture, the glint in his eye—it was different.

"You ever learned how to completely suppress your guide aura?"

"Yeah," Moondae said without missing a beat.

"Good. Do it. I wanna test something."

Moondae blinked but didn’t argue. If Sejin wanted to test his skills, it could only help him. He closed his eyes briefly, centering his breathing. He felt the faint golden threads of his guide aura retreat, folding in on themselves until they were nothing more than a whisper against the world. When he opened his eyes again, there was no trace left of his power in the room.

Sejin and Ahyeon exchanged an impressed glance.

"Whoa... That’s seriously clean," Ahyeon muttered, amazed.

"Useful skill," Sejin added, approvingly. "Canceling your aura is harder than people think. I use it all the time during ops."

Moondae gave a small shrug like it was no big deal, but he felt a quiet pride in the back of his mind.

"Now," Sejin leaned in, tapping his temple lightly. "Try to shield yourself against my pressure."

"Okay," Moondae said, settling deeper into focus.

The moment he closed his eyes again, he felt it—the heavy, crushing force of Sejin's esper aura pressing against his mind like an invisible migraine. It felt like a storm pounding at the gates of his consciousness, trying to push in, rip apart his control.

Gritting his teeth, Moondae concentrated harder. He summoned up his inner shield, imagining thick walls of steel slamming into place, layer upon layer. It hurt. It made his breathing shallow. But he refused to crumble.

After a tense few seconds that felt like hours, Sejin finally said, "That's enough."

The pressure vanished in an instant, leaving Moondae dizzy. He swayed slightly where he sat, and Ahyeon immediately shifted closer, hands ready to catch him if needed.

"You just withstood a Class-S esper’s mental pressure," Sejin said smugly, reaching over to flick Moondae’s forehead playfully. "Be proud."

Moondae scowled, rubbing the spot Sejin flicked.

As Sejin rose and walked past him, his usual easygoing aura seemed... off. Not violent, but turbulent, like there were things he wasn’t saying.

Acting on impulse—or maybe out of petty revenge—Moondae reached out and snagged Sejin’s sleeve, making the taller boy stumble slightly.

"What now—"

Before Sejin could complain, Moondae stood on his knees and pressed his palm gently over Sejin's eyes.

"Kinda looks like you need a guide session yourself, Lee Sejin," he murmured.

Without waiting for permission, he channeled a soft stream of guiding energy into Sejin. He could feel the locked-up tension under Sejin’s skin slowly unwinding, the chaotic storm quieting to a gentle hum. The taller boy froze completely, letting the warmth wash over him.

When it was done, Moondae pulled back and gave a light pat on Sejin’s head, almost condescendingly.

"Thanks for being my practice dummy," he deadpanned before flopping back onto the couch beside Ahyeon like nothing had happened.

There was a brief, stunned silence—then Sejin burst into wild, helpless laughter, nearly doubling over as he held his sides.

Ahyeon covered his mouth, giggling quietly, while Moondae just rolled his eyes and tugged a throw pillow over his face to block them both out.

Chapter Text

Scene: Celestial Division Headquarters – Data Room]

The low hum of servers filled the sterile air of the data room. Endless rows of holographic screens floated silently, each brimming with classified information. In the middle of it all sat Park Moondae, his thin fingers flying across the digital interface as he pulled out report after report.

He had officially been registered as a Guide. But unlike others who immediately jumped into training simulations or practice missions, Moondae had chosen a different path — understanding the battlefield before stepping onto it.

 Records.

The unique skill he obtained from his advanced trial. It allowed him not just to read information, but to retain and organize it perfectly within his mind, almost as if he was building a second memory bank.

The World of Gates and Monsters

Through the countless reports, Moondae pieced together the truth about the world he now belonged to.

At some point decades ago, strange dimensional tears called Gates began to appear without warning all across the world. From within them, monstrous creatures — referred to collectively as monsters — poured into reality, bringing devastation.

The authorities, helpless at first, eventually adapted. They created the Celestial Division, an organization composed of two critical roles:

• Espers: Individuals who could combat monsters using supernatural abilities.
•  
• Guides: Individuals who could stabilize, strengthen, and support Espers during missions. Without Guides, Espers would burn through their own life force far too quickly, or worse, lose control.

Rank System:

Both Espers and Guides were ranked based on their measured strength and stability:

• S-Rank: Legendary level. Capable of turning the tide of battles single-handedly.
•  
• A-Rank: Elite level. Needed to manage major Gates.
•  
• B-Rank and below: Assigned to smaller threats and support roles.

Monsters, too, were categorized similarly:

• Rank F to B: Minor threats; often handled by new recruits.
•  
• Rank A: Capable of leveling entire districts if not stopped.
•  
• Rank S: Catastrophic level monsters. Their appearance would trigger national emergency protocols. 

And then, there were rumors of EX-Rank monsters — entities that defied categorization, responsible for the destruction of entire cities before the systems were properly in place. No official records existed for these beings.

Moondae learned that the rank of a Gate was no longer assigned randomly. Instead, after countless tragedies and analysis, humanity had discovered a grim predictor:

Gate Ranking System :

The death zone radius :

• 100 meters or less = C-rank Gate. 
•  
• 100m - 500m = B-rank Gate. 
•  
• 500m - 2km = A-rank Gate. 
•  
• More than 2km = S-rank Gate. 

If, before a Gate fully manifested, the area around it began to experience:

• Spontaneous deaths of wildlife,
• Electrical failures,
• Sudden shifts in atmospheric pressure,
• Violent distortions in ambient aura,

then the Gate would be ranked accordingly.

The bigger the death zone, the more nightmarish the monsters inside would be.

Monster Types. 

Scrolling through endless files, Moondae sorted the monsters into broad categories:

1. Common Monsters: Appear frequently across Gates of all sizes.

Examples:

• Fangbeasts: Wolf-like creatures with acid saliva.
•  
• Spinehounds: Agile predators with regenerative abilities.
•  
• Muckfiends: Sluggish but highly toxic slimes.

Easy to predict and relatively well-documented.

2. Rare Monsters: Only appear in larger, unstable Gates.

Examples:

• Howlers: Humanoid creatures whose screams disrupt psychic connections (especially dangerous to Guides).
• Shardwings: Flying reptiles with razor-sharp scales.

Require specific strategies to defeat.

3. Apex Monsters (Boss Class): Usually emerge when a Gate is near collapse.

Often command lower-level monsters.

Examples:

• Void Titan: A massive entity that manipulates gravity fields.
• Bloodroot Sovereign: A parasitic plant monster that transforms entire landscapes into death traps.

Defeating them often closes the Gate.

Each monster record was detailed with:

• Known weaknesses,
• Battle strategies,
• Fatalities caused,
• Recommended Esper-Guides combinations for subjugation.

Moondae didn't just read these records — he memorized them.

He studied the flow of battles.

He understood how each monster behaved under different environmental factors.

He internalized what mistakes had led to the most deaths.

And most importantly, he saw that despite the overwhelming chaos, there were patterns.

Patterns he could use.

Sitting cross-legged in the empty data room, a faint glow of holographic text reflecting in his eyes, Moondae closed another report with a quiet exhale. His mind burned with information, but it was a good burn — a growing fire.

"The Gates may be unpredictable...

but monsters are not invincible."

With a steady hand, he opened a fresh file — not about monsters, but about Esper-Guide Resonance Theories.

If he wanted to move forward, if he wanted to stand on the battlefield properly — he needed to connect to an A-Rank Esper.

He needed to be more than a silent observer.

He needed to step into the chaos with eyes wide open.

The passage of time inside the data room felt different — slower, yet sharper. Park Moondae, still seated before the holographic displays, accessed a heavily encrypted archive labeled:

"History of Esper and Guide Emergence: Global Report 0.1A"

The screen flickered, and then the story of humanity’s darkest, and yet most pivotal, era unfolded before his eyes.

The Birth of Espers and Guides

Approximately thirty years ago, the first Gate appeared — an unnatural rift in the fabric of the world — somewhere deep within the desolate borderlands of what was once thought an untouched region.

It didn’t start with a burst of monsters.

It started with death.

Animals in a 50-meter radius dropped dead with no signs of struggle.

Plants withered.

The air thickened with something unseen yet suffocating.

Machines malfunctioned without cause.

Human casualties were swift. Within twenty-four hours, more than 10,000 people were confirmed dead globally as multiple Gates spontaneously appeared in other locations.

This cataclysmic event was later named:

 The First Dawn of Ruin.

Panic swept across nations. Governments collapsed overnight.

People believed the world had reached its prophesied end.

But the sky remained — blue, constant, almost mocking.

The sun still rose. The stars still glittered in their ancient patterns.

The world was broken, but it was not ended.

The Rise of Human Defiance

Five days into the chaos, something impossible happened.

Among the ordinary, powerless survivors, exceptions emerged.

Individuals who, faced with extinction and fueled by desperation and fury, awakened new abilities — abilities that allowed them to push back against the monsters that spewed from the Gates.

These individuals became known as Espers.

First Recorded Esper:

• Region: Western territories (modern-day North America)
• Known Ability: Manipulation of gravitational fields.
• Status: Deceased during the Third Gate Disaster.

Simultaneously but separately, across the seas in Asia, another phenomenon was quietly documented.

Unlike Espers, some individuals did not fight monsters directly.

Instead, they could resonate with Espers — stabilizing them, enhancing their powers, or shielding them from the overwhelming madness that seemed to accompany heavy supernatural exertion.

These individuals were called Guides.

First Recorded Guide:

• Region: East Asia (suspected Korea-Japan corridor)
• Known Ability: Emotional and psychic resonance.
• Status: Disappeared after the formation of the First Coalition Guild.

Without Guides, early Espers burned out quickly.

Many died after a few battles, succumbing to what was called "psychic corrosion" — a slow, agonizing death caused by the uncontrolled backflow of their own powers.

Humanity’s Response

Survival demanded organization.

Guilds were formed — initially small, chaotic, and localized.

Agencies rose later — government-backed forces that regulated the deployment of Espers and Guides.

Early research into Gates, monsters, and supernatural adaptation began, even as losses continued to pile up.

Every major country established their own systems, but by a global treaty known as The Pact of Remnants, they agreed on two fundamental rules:

1. No nation could claim ownership of an Esper or Guide against their will.
2. Information about the Gates would be shared globally.

The first true multinational Guilds formed after that, with the Celestial Division standing among the oldest and most prestigious.

And even now, after thirty years, the truth behind the Gates' existence remains unsolved.

The most widely accepted theory?

The Gates are the scars of another world bleeding into ours.

From his exhaustive reading, Moondae understood that the monsters from the Gates were as much a product of madness as of nature.

Some monsters:

• Seemed almost biological — twisted versions of earthly animals.
• Others defied logic — entities of pure force, mist, shadow, or sound.
• A rare few carried remnants of intelligence, forming packs or commanding lesser creatures.

Each Gate generated monsters that fit its own environmental signature. 

1. Cold Gates birthed ice-bound horrors.
2. Burning Gates unleashed creatures of living flame.
3. Abyssal Gates — the rarest — produced creatures that even Espers struggled to perceive correctly.

Moondae leaned back slightly, his mind racing yet organized.

Espers and Guides did not choose their fates.

They were born of necessity, forced into existence by the cruelty of survival.

Even the first Esper and Guide had likely not intended to become heroes. They had simply refused to die.

Moondae closed the file, the hologram folding itself neatly into nothingness.

 Understanding the past means understanding how to live in the future.

And Moondae had every intention of surviving.

No — not just surviving.

He would thrive.

He would carve a place for himself in this brutal world, one careful decision at a time.

And it began... with knowledge.

The holographic screen displayed another report — this time under a classified section titled:

"Rank Evolution and Advancement – Analysis Report"

Park Moondae's eyes scanned the dense text, every line feeding directly into his Records skill. His mind, already burdened, refused to slow down.

The Nature of Rank Advancement. 

In the current world order, individuals with supernatural abilities — Espers and Guides alike — were evaluated by a standardized Rank System, from the lowest F-rank to the highest S-rank.

The classification wasn't simply an indicator of raw power.

It was an amalgamation of:

• Control over one's abilities.
• Resistance to psychic corrosion.
• Combat effectiveness or resonance capability.
• Adaptability under unpredictable supernatural environments.

At first, most individuals remained stagnant within the rank they awakened with.

An F-rank would stay an F-rank for their entire lives.

At least, that's what early researchers believed.

But over time, documented exceptions began to emerge.

The Theory of Forced Growth. 

Advancement was possible — but the path was brutal.

 The only way to evolve one's Rank is to continually surpass their own limitations.

For Espers, this meant repeatedly pushing their abilities beyond safe thresholds, risking mental instability, psychic breakdowns, and permanent physical damage.

For Guides, it involved overextending their resonance fields, amplifying Espers beyond sustainable levels, and risking complete emotional disintegration.

Growth was not linear.

It demanded a dangerous dance at the edge of collapse — again and again.

Failure often meant death or, worse, permanent regression.

Many who attempted to climb ranks ended up lower than where they started, their minds and bodies forever crippled by overexertion.

Thus, while theoretically anyone could rise from F-rank to higher classes, the reality was that less than 3% of awakened individuals ever successfully advanced a full rank.

Rank and Potential. 

The data also highlighted another harsh truth:

• Potential is elastic but not infinite.

There were latent ceilings unique to each individual — genetic, environmental, or metaphysical in origin — that dictated how far a person could realistically go.

Some F-ranks might only ever reach C at their absolute limit.

Others, though rare, could ascend from the bottom to the top through sheer, maddening will.

But no one would know their limit...

Until they bled for it.

Moondae was halfway through parsing a case study on an Esper who rose from D-rank to A-rank when it hit him.

At first, it was just a small cough — barely noticeable.

He wiped at his mouth distractedly, still focusing on the next file.

Then the cough deepened. His chest tightened, as if an invisible chain wrapped itself around his lungs and began to pull mercilessly.

He stumbled backward from the screen, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to grab something, anything.

 Warning.

Overuse of "Records" detected.

Cognitive system exceeding operational limits.

Immediate shutdown recommended.

The voice of the system echoed hollowly in his mind, detached and mechanical, utterly indifferent to his pain.

Moondae barely heard it.

He collapsed onto the cold, hard floor of the data room. His body convulsed once, then twice, a sickening rattle escaping his throat.

His vision blurred — not from tears, but from the sheer overload of information saturating his neural pathways.

Records was a skill born from the Advanced Trial — a blessing and a curse.

While it allowed perfect assimilation of data, it demanded an equally perfect vessel to contain it.

And Moondae was not perfect.

Not yet.

For what felt like an eternity — though only thirty minutes passed — Moondae writhed in silent agony.

No one came.

No one noticed.

The Celestial Division was used to silence.

They were used to people pushing too far.

And failure... was considered part of training.

Eventually, the seizures subsided into painful shudders.

Moondae lay still, sweat pooling beneath him, his breath shallow and uneven.

He opened his eyes slowly.

The data room’s light was too bright.

The world was too loud.

But he was alive.

Barely.

He pushed himself up onto shaking hands, then onto his knees.

He wiped his mouth again.

This time, a faint trace of blood stained his palm.

He stared at it — unblinking.

This is the price of growth.

Not effort. Not talent.

Sacrifice.

Moondae understood, deeper than ever before, that the world he lived in demanded more than strength.

It demanded everything.

And he...

He intended to give it.

Chapter Text

Park Moondae did not want to die.

For countless reasons — both tangible and abstract — he refused to succumb to death.

The world was too absurd, too infuriating to the point that surrendering to something as banal as "fate" felt like the ultimate humiliation.

That was the only real reason he still bothered.

Why he forced himself to complete the daily missions without fail.

Why he chased down side quests no matter how trivial or exhausting they seemed.

Why he agonized for hours over how best to distribute his stat points, calculating every single decision like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

Because he refused to die.

But lately, the path he had chosen — the one he thought would guarantee survival — felt more like a slow, grueling march toward death itself.

Maybe, he mused bitterly, it would have been a little easier if he had transmigrated into a novel he'd actually read.

At least then he would have a map. A few clues.

A fighting chance.

But who was he kidding?

Who was he talking to?

Ryu Gunwoo — the name he wore before — had never been someone favored by fate or fortune.

There was no divine script written for him.

There were no lucky breaks waiting around the corner.