Chapter 91: The Weight of Standing Alone

Even after barely managing to find a party, the cold treatment from his teammates never stopped. It was even worse when the party included hunters affiliated with a guild.

“Hey, seriously—do this properly.”

“You’re in the way.”

They often treated Seong Ji-woo like someone taking up space without doing any real work, never hesitating to stir others up or play petty political games.

They’d get angry if they were told someone belonged to some unheard-of guild, yet they casually called Seong Ji-woo a “no-name supporter” without a second thought.

Some didn’t even bother calling him a hunter. Most just referred to him as, “Hey, supporter.”

The average age of hunters wasn’t particularly high, but Seong Ji-woo was a so-called washed-up rookie—someone with experience that didn’t count. He wasn’t even treated as someone his age.

Ironically, people who had only just returned and started their hunter careers were treated better.

It felt unfair—he hadn’t taken time off by choice—but it had still been his decision. So Seong Ji-woo clenched his teeth and endured.

If he didn’t work, even scraping together a single meal became difficult. He had no family to lean on, no guild to shelter him.

Some might have asked why he didn’t just join a guild instead of suffering like this. But back then, no guild wanted to take him in.

Even the institution where he’d interned—where they’d once urged him to join their guild once he became a hunter—pretended not to know him.

Disillusioned by that, Seong Ji-woo eventually refused to belong to any guild at all. A family-like guild, brotherhood among members—it was all just hollow talk.

He’d pushed his body to the brink, squeezing out every last drop of strength to provide buffs, yet the only thing he got in return was:

“Are you trying to ride the bus while doing gate runs?”

Calling it a bus was generous. A handcart, maybe. The ride was awful, there was no driver—and it felt more like a rickety cart rattling down a slope all by itself.

And yet, after barely taking down a single monster, they’d still rant about buses and carries.

When it came time to split the loot after a gate clear, they made it painfully obvious they didn’t want to give him anything.

“I asked for a buff earlier—why didn’t you give me one?”

Buffs weren’t infinite. There were limits, cooldowns—yet they shamelessly, stupidly berated him for not giving one on demand.

“That was when you messed up. You misjudged your attack and took backlash—how was I supposed to buff you then?”

He clearly remembered that moment: the person had drawn aggro without landing a proper hit and was frantically running away while yelling for a buff.

He’d been too far away, the timing impossible with them constantly moving—and he’d just exhausted most of his power putting up a shield moments before.

“You can’t even do that and you call yourself a supporter? If you’re getting carried, at least pull your weight.”

Pull his weight? He’d done enough for three people, but diminishing his contributions was practically tradition.

“Anyway, I don’t agree with equal distribution. It has to be fair.”

Every time, Seong Ji-woo wished gate clears worked like games—where contribution was calculated numerically at the end. But this was reality. The loudest voice was always the one credited with the most effort.

Clearing gates earned reputation, but with nothing tangible in his hands, Seong Ji-woo had no choice but to grind harder.

And even then, this was what he heard:

“As a supporter, you can’t just stand around watching while everyone else is working their asses off.”

They never once considered the fact that while they charged blindly ahead, he was calculating timing, watching the battlefield, deploying shields, buffs, and debuffs exactly when needed.

A group with zero synergy, all drunk on their own damage numbers—yet they had the nerve to talk.

Still, he endured. Endured and endured—until he finally broke into the top ten of the hunter rankings, a concrete wall few could penetrate.

Once his name carried undeniable weight, no one dared to run their mouths anymore. Instead, they rushed to praise him as a “god-tier supporter.”

But it was still just talk.

His life didn’t get any easier. He was still treated like a free buff vending machine.

No—now every guild was desperate to install their own free buff dispenser.

“If you join our guild, we’ll treat you just like our damage dealers.”

Some lunatics said that as if it were some grand favor.

“Honestly, supporters have a hard time joining guilds, right? You won’t find better conditions than ours.”

Others confidently offered industry-bottom salaries with straight faces.

After that, Seong Ji-woo swore he’d never join a guild. Even so, guilds kept approaching him shamelessly, constantly trying to coax him in—while the disrespect rooted beneath it all never truly disappeared.

“You should think long-term. You might get by on guts now, but without a guild, things will only get harder.”

They weren’t wrong. The longer you stayed solo as a hunter, the worse it got. Most veteran parties were guild-based, and parties that weren’t were increasingly rare.

If you had a guild, there was no reason to argue or struggle with strangers just to form a party.

As Seong Ji-woo agonized over how he’d survive as a hunter going forward, an unidentified villain appeared.

And with that, all thoughts of the future came to an abrupt end.

He was immediately deployed to the X-Gate.

Even there, he suffered through endless political games played by those with guild backing—and just when he was exhausted enough to want to quit everything, the Light of the End swallowed him whole.

He’d told Yu Hee-ro that if he became a damage dealer, he could enter gates alone—that that was why he wanted to change roles.

That wasn’t wrong.

But more than anything, he didn’t want to repeat the past.

It wasn’t that he hated being a supporter. He took pride in it. With the right teammates, he loved acting as a control tower, directing the battlefield in all directions.

But that was only the ideal version of being a supporter.

In reality, supporters were powerless. True to their name, they couldn’t stand on their own. Everything depended on the condition of the damage dealers and tanks they supported.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, he couldn’t flip the board. Meanwhile, damage dealers would overturn everything over the slightest dissatisfaction.

In one-off parties formed for gathering rather than combat, their sense of responsibility was nearly zero. Whether it was a damage dealer trait or not, most of them had strong egos—and infuriatingly, things usually went their way.

Seong Ji-woo wanted to become a hunter who neither relied on others nor was swayed by them.

To do that, he needed a trump card of his own—something powerful enough to turn the tide.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

This wasn’t something that could be understood intellectually. Seong Ji-woo’s expression turned a little bitter. He knew what Yu Hee-ro was thinking, and he knew the heart behind his concern.

But this wasn’t a problem Yu Hee-ro could solve. He couldn’t stay by Seong Ji-woo’s side forever—and Seong Ji-woo couldn’t entrust everything to him.

“….”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. How could I not?”

“Then why…?”

“The one I don’t trust is myself.”

Because he didn’t trust himself, he had to become stronger.

The world had never been full of people he could rely on—but now, cornered at the edge of a cliff, he couldn’t even rely on himself.

Of course. There was nothing about him worth trusting—yet.

“I might have to save myself someday.”

“….”

“And maybe… I might have to save you, too.”

This wasn’t just about his own safety. No matter how strong Yu Hee-ro was, he was still human. If his life were truly at risk, strength alone wouldn’t be enough.

Yu Hee-ro’s gaze wavered. It seemed he’d never considered that angle. He fell silent for a moment.

“…So you train to protect me too?”

“If you put it that way… yeah.”

That was one of the reasons, at least. Seong Ji-woo’s decision to become a damage dealer wasn’t reckless pride—it was a judgment made for the future.

And that, in itself, was unusual. He’d never been someone who thought deeply about the future.

“I understand.”

“What? Really…?”

Seong Ji-woo looked at him skeptically. It was hard to believe that someone born with a damage dealer’s golden spoon could truly understand him.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for… I’m not even strong enough to protect you yet.”

“That too—but I’m grateful that you’re trying to protect yourself. I thought you were only obsessed with protecting others.”

“What? Why would I—?”

Never once in his life had Seong Ji-woo considered himself altruistic. Yu Hee-ro’s words left him genuinely confused.

Yu Hee-ro smiled faintly.

“You remember what you used to say all the time in high school, right?”

Seong Ji-woo flinched slightly. To be honest, he barely remembered now. Faith, peace, love… something like that.

“And during the Dohwari Gate incident, you volunteered to enter even though you didn’t have to.”

“That was just because of the situation…”

It had been stifling—that was all. If anything, it was more a product of his impatience than altruism.

“If you promise to prioritize your safety and my life above all else, I won’t stop you.”

“…You don’t need a promise for that.”

He’d already planned to do so. As Seong Ji-woo gave a vague affirmation, Yu Hee-ro’s smile deepened.

“And there’s one more condition.”

“A condition?”

Seong Ji-woo looked at him with wary eyes.