Chapter 116: The Price of Becoming a Hero

One dawn, several days had passed since Sung Ji-woo’s brief meeting with Yu Hee-ro. And at last, Yu Hee-ro put the plan into motion.

They hadn’t discussed when exactly the plan would be carried out, so Sung Ji-woo had no choice but to monitor the signal from the artifact sent to Yu Hee-ro all day long. Then, this afternoon, a message finally arrived from Park Su-jin.

“We need to go. Now.”

The Knocker was close enough that one could practically reach it if they tripped and fell. Sung Ji-woo headed straight there and went directly to Park Su-jin’s office. He didn’t even have time to greet Gam Ju-an.

“Did the signal come in?”

Park Su-jin, who had been glued to her computer for quite some time, pointed at the monitor. The blurry screen gradually sharpened.

The image shook erratically, as if Yu Hee-ro was moving.

“I knew they wouldn’t catch the pendant.”

Even after returning from X-Gate, Yu Hee-ro had never taken the pendant off. Using that fact, Sung Ji-woo had made a new one with the exact same design.

Instead of an ability-based function, he had embedded a camera inside it. He’d shortened the chain slightly to minimize shaking, but it seemed impossible to eliminate the inertia that came with movement.

Fortunately, Yu Hee-ro seemed to have noticed it vaguely as well—each time he stopped, he would grab the pendant and steady it.

Park Su-jin’s eyes swept rapidly across the screen.

“Do you recognize this place?”

For now, Yu Hee-ro was clearly inside the research facility. Since Park Su-jin had worked there, if only briefly, she might have known it.

But she let out a small sigh.

“Up until just now, yes. But this elevator—I’ve never seen it.”

The elevator doors filled the screen. There were no buttons beside them to select a floor. Instead, there was only a slot below, meant for a card key.

“It’s a place only people with a certain security clearance or higher can access.”

It was obvious what the Association was up to. Among the researchers, urban legends circulated—stories about a laboratory beneath the institute as large as a soccer field. And even the ones who joked about it half-believed that the rumor might actually be true.

When Park Su-jin had first become a researcher, she’d dismissed it as ridiculous nonsense. After all, she had signed a research ethics pledge when she entered the institute.

She’d never imagined that the people preaching ethics would be doing something so grotesque behind the scenes.

That was what the research institute was like. It formed its own closed bonds and subtly exploited the human fear of isolation.

If you lost focus for even a moment, you’d be swept along by the atmosphere and forget what you were even doing. Everything became mechanical, driven by inertia. The higher-ups often issued orders without ever explaining what the research or experiments were actually for.

Those who questioned it soon disappeared.

It was absurd. Watching that happen, Yoo Ji-eun had once said this:

“Can you believe it? The smartest people in Korea are gathered here, doing the stupidest things. They move like puppets without even knowing what they’re doing. Worse—they don’t even realize they’re puppets.”

She called them foolish and laughable, but there had been pity in her eyes. And something like grief. She understood better than anyone the mindset of people stepping into the institute for the first time.

Yoo Ji-eun lived by the creed that one shouldn’t blame people. No matter how hard she tried, Park Su-jin could never adopt that belief.

“It’s truly inhumane.”

How could anyone not be angry at what was unfolding before their eyes? At Sung Ji-woo’s bitter remark, Park Su-jin answered with silence.

On the screen appeared a glass wall like a massive aquarium. Inside it was a circular iron cage. A young boy was crouched within, his body weighed down with old-fashioned restraints.

A researcher, clad in protective gear, approached with sluggish movements. The constant hum of machinery made it impossible to hear their conversation clearly.

The few words that drifted through were too fragmented to piece together. Sung Ji-woo licked his dry lips in frustration as the researcher handed a file to Yu Hee-ro.

At that moment, both of their eyes began to shine.

******

Yu Hee-ro looked indifferently at the researcher rambling on in front of him. He casually adjusted the hand holding the research documents so that the camera could capture them as clearly as possible.

“The surgery followed the same procedure as before, and the progress isn’t bad. There’s no longer any rejection response. You could say the transplant was completely successful. The problem is that he can’t use his ability at all.”

“……”

“We’d like you to describe in detail the circumstances under which you first used your ability.”

All eyes turned toward Yu Hee-ro. That was precisely why the Association President had summoned him to the institute.

“You couldn’t use your ability at first either, Mr. Yu Hee-ro. You were the first test subject.”

Yu Hee-ro nodded leisurely.

“That’s right.”

It was a moment he could barely remember now. There had been people who treated him as less than an insect just because he couldn’t use a single ability. Their names and faces had faded so completely that not even a trace remained.

With a distant expression, Yu Hee-ro looked as though he were reminiscing about a past life. In truth, it was a past life to him. This was his second life.

“What triggered you to use your ability?”

Yu Hee-ro skimmed over the experimental progress report preserved in the research materials. His finger slowly traced downward along the dense lines of text.

The records, no different from a logbook, listed only objective facts. But Yu Hee-ro knew well the suffering that hadn’t been recorded. The boy’s words—I’ll end up like you—briefly surfaced in his mind, then vanished.

He was sick of grand ideals and lofty missions.

Through the glass, through the iron bars, the boy’s gaze tangled with Yu Hee-ro’s. The child didn’t ask for help. He had trapped himself in there.

He had seen fragments of Yu Hee-ro’s outward life and longed to become like that, believing that a better tomorrow awaited him.

The truth stirred on Yu Hee-ro’s tongue.

He buried the truth of his previous life and began reciting only the truth of this one.

“There wasn’t a specific trigger. It was the result of training.”

In this life, he had gained the ability after meeting Sung Ji-woo.

“…What kind of training, exactly?”

The researcher looked unconvinced but picked up his pen anyway, as if even this scrap of information was precious. Yu Hee-ro brushed his chin and replied.

“I met a good teacher.”

Hardly an answer one could call training. Dissatisfaction flashed across the researcher’s face. Yu Hee-ro dredged up the memory vividly.

“So the training you did back then was—”

“Meditation.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Meditation.”

The researcher’s expression hardened, as if to say, Are you mocking us right now? But Yu Hee-ro calmly went on about “inner peace,” faithfully preaching Sung Ji-woo’s teachings.

“Above all, mental stability is important. I meditated while thinking about love, peace, and devotion.”

It was an answer befitting a hunter named Hero, the so-called national hero. Had anyone else heard it, they might have been deeply moved and sung his praises.

But no one here would be swayed by words like that.

The people gathered here wanted clear variables and quantifiable data.

Yu Hee-ro tapped a few dates with his finger.

“Insomnia, nervous hypersensitivity, fainting, tinnitus, and so on. Just looking at this, I’d say that test subject over there is definitely not in a mentally stable state.”

At the word test subject coming from Yu Hee-ro’s mouth, the sharp hostility in the researchers’ expressions softened. They had been wary—terrified, even—that Yu Hee-ro might feel a sense of kinship with the subject. Cheap sympathy would ruin the experiment.

But Yu Hee-ro treated the subject like an inorganic object. He had even once endangered a test subject’s life. The researchers had already concluded, on their own, that this was closer to self-loathing than empathy.

“If the situation doesn’t allow it, at least try improving the environment. One thing’s for sure—drugs don’t do a damn thing. You already know that, judging by the state I’m in.”

At Yu Hee-ro’s words, the researchers fell silent, as if at a loss. He was right—stimulants and enhancers had failed to produce meaningful results.

They’d even obtained illegal drugs from the black market and analyzed them, but none of the so-called “100% guaranteed” substances had delivered results.

All they’d achieved were side effects—fever, vomiting, and more. Only after pushing the dosage to the brink of lethality had they stepped back to observe the reactions.

“I know you locked him up in there to watch drug reactions.”

Yu Hee-ro’s gaze returned to the boy. The very act of restraining him while hoping for his ability to manifest was a contradiction.

Which meant they were afraid his ability might go berserk due to the drugs.

“I don’t get why you’d stubbornly do something so inefficient.”

At his muttered sneer, the researchers’ faces flushed red.

In truth, there was nothing they could do. In Yu Hee-ro’s case, every experiment they’d attempted had ended in failure. And then, out of nowhere, he’d suddenly been able to use his ability.

It had happened at a time when Yu Hee-ro’s experiments had effectively been deemed a failure and put on indefinite hold.

The second project had begun halfheartedly, riding on the claim that the first experiment had succeeded—but the researchers still had no idea why it had worked. They had no choice but to rely on Yu Hee-ro.

“…Those were the Association President’s orders.”

A pitiful excuse slipped from the researcher’s mouth. He clearly had no intention of admitting his own incompetence. Yu Hee-ro nodded once, indifferently.

The boy trapped inside the cage had been staring at Yu Hee-ro nonstop ever since he appeared, as if waiting for salvation.

After scanning through the last page of the research file, Yu Hee-ro closed it.

HERO PROJECT 02

NAME: Jung Su-han

Only when he flipped back to the front did the boy’s name finally catch his eye. Yu Hee-ro’s gaze touched it briefly—then slipped away, just as coldly.