Chapter 131: The World That Kept Moving

Cha Minjeong, who had remained behind in the hospital room, turned on the TV with the remote.

As expected, the news was in full swing. Ever since that incident, broadcasting stations had been running nonstop news coverage.

Today marked the third day already. Which meant it had also been three days since Yu Heero had woken up. In that span of time, it was only natural that many things had happened.

Cha Minjeong, claiming she didn’t want to get too deeply involved, had mostly shut herself away going back and forth between Yu Heero’s room and Seong Jiwoo’s. Park Sujin, however, was different.

For three days straight, he hadn’t even had the chance to change his clothes, rushing back and forth nonstop. Each time he disappeared and then reappeared in the hospital room, a new breaking-news alert would erupt on TV.

With suspicious ties to the current administration coming to light, the Association President Gate exploded, dragging one connected official after another out into the open.

The unethical and illegal experiments once conducted at the research institute couldn’t escape controversy either. As if on cue, a real-time filibuster on the issue was underway.

The head of a research institute affiliated with the International Hunter Association was livid, veins bulging as he shouted that this made no sense at all. His words flashed rapidly across the screen in Korean subtitles.

Cha Minjeong glanced at Park Sujin. The thick stack of documents piled on the table nearby were all evidence he had handed over. His one request had been simple.

All personal information regarding the test subjects was to remain strictly confidential.

As a result, the test subjects of the HERO PROJECT were referred to only as Subject A and Subject B.

But Cha Minjeong knew that Subject A was Yu Heero, and Subject B was the young boy sleeping peacefully in the ward downstairs.

The people who had been there together likely realized it too. There was no need for deduction—the situation was far too obvious. Even so, none of it leaked outside. Without anyone having to say it aloud, there was an unspoken agreement to stay quiet and be careful.

It seemed Park Sujin hadn’t lied when he said he’d only brought people he could trust. There were no stories leaking to the outside about the incident—only what the journalist he’d brought with him officially released was being accepted as “the truth.”

All of this had happened in just three days.

In three days, statements had poured out from the International Hunter Association and private organizations advocating for hunter welfare, and the entire world had begun condemning the Korean Hunter Association.

The president was summoned to a hearing. The association president was arrested. Institutional guilds were handed over to the prosecution.

On-screen captions—so frantic they made one dizzy—kept appearing and disappearing. For three days, day and night in South Korea had effectively vanished, and the news continued to pump out breaking reports for those who no longer slept.

At some point, Park Sujin was staring intently at the screen, his gaze sharp.

“…Is it over?”

Breaking the silence, Cha Minjeong asked cautiously. From what she could see on the screen, it looked like things were only just beginning—but on their side, the storm had already swept through.

Park Sujin answered in a calm voice.

“Yes. What’s left now is for me to handle.”

What exactly he was handling was impossible to guess. All Cha Minjeong could tell was that Park Sujin had been entangled in this affair for a very long time—and had prepared just as long to bring it to an end.

It wasn’t a story she particularly wanted to know. Cha Minjeong shifted the direction of her question.

“Then the guild leader is in the clear now, right?”

“…We still need to monitor his physical condition.”

“No, I mean that.”

She jerked her chin toward the TV. What she was asking was whether Yu Heero would continue to be fodder for public gossip.

Park Sujin answered with a resolute look.

“Yes.”

A few days later, the association president appeared on TV, his haggard face filling the screen. Yu Heero watched with an indifferent gaze.

“We deeply apologize to the citizens for causing concern over this unfortunate incident. To all those who placed their trust in the Korean Hunter Association, I feel profoundly ashamed. Our association promises to fully cooperate with all prosecutorial investigations—”

Dark circles hung heavily beneath his eyes. His hair, unstyled and disheveled, was streaked with gray. Spots, wrinkles—he looked as though he’d aged thirty years overnight, to the point of resembling a clown.

No—perhaps that was his true face after all.

A toothless, senile tiger. One that still believed itself mighty and growled on, only to vanish in the end, leaving nothing but bones and hide behind.

As the association president bowed his head in apology, a bold caption streaked across his chest.

[Breaking News: Prosecution Finds Evidence of Corruption and Collusion by Association President—Search and Seizure Warrant Issued]

Someone hurried onto the screen to whisper into the president’s ear, likely informing him of the very caption now being broadcast nationwide.

The color drained from the president’s face in an instant. His eyes trembled like aspen leaves. Contrary to his words about cooperation, he couldn’t even look toward the camera, descending from the podium only with the support of his guards.

The association president was not detained. The reason given was that the evidence had already been thoroughly secured and there was no risk of flight.

Instead, an arrest came from an entirely unexpected place.

The National Police Commissioner was placed under arrest.

Watching the situation snowball, Park Sujin muttered,

“I didn’t expect it to get this big.”

His goal had been to dismantle the association—but once the lid was opened, it was as though the entire nation was being torn down instead. Amid the chaos, high-ranking political figures scrambled to cut off their tails or shove blame onto scapegoats.

An emergency committee was formed, and they secured Son Seongcheol as a key witness. The reason he hadn’t shown his face even once in the hospital since the incident soon became clear.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to come—he couldn’t.

Dragged from place to place, looking even more emaciated than the association president, Son Seongcheol confessed in detail to everything he had done, the president’s unjust orders, and the circumstances of the corruption.

As if offering a formal greeting, he added that he would reveal all the truth and accept appropriate punishment. He also said he felt genuine remorse toward the victims.

Every time the victims were mentioned, people glanced toward Yu Heero. But the person concerned himself was busy wiping Seong Jiwoo’s forehead and cheeks with a towel soaked in warm water.

“He’s still… asleep.”

Lee Hyerin said quietly, her hands wrapped thickly in bandages. Like the others, she had little interest in the news playing on TV.

“No updates on your side either?”

Cha Minjeong, who had grown closer to her since the incident, spoke gently. She forced a small smile and shook her head.

“Not yet.”

Like Seong Jiwoo, Shin Yoonjae’s recovery was painfully slow. His external injuries had healed to some extent, but perhaps due to excessive ability consumption, he still couldn’t open his eyes.

The doctors said the chances of a rampaging ability user surviving were extremely low—that even if he lived, he’d be no different from someone in a vegetative state. They advised holding onto hope, but also preparing oneself mentally.

But Lee Hyerin could do neither.

“I’ll just… wait.”

Seong Jiwoo had been dreaming for a long time.

He didn’t know where it began. Only that it moved from innocent days, to days that went astray, and then to the long, grueling days that followed.

Even emotions he had long since forgotten drifted past him like waves. And in the place those memories passed through, new sand settled—sand carried in by the tide.

Among them, the deepest imprint was—

Eyes like beach sand.

Through his muddled consciousness, Seong Jiwoo saw the sea.

No—it was the sky.

Hair that held the light fluttered softly. Like that youthful memory from an afternoon long ago, when they’d met in the training room.

“…Is this a dream?”

His murmured voice dissolved into the haze of his clouded mind. He called Yu Heero’s name, but it never formed into sound.

He only wanted to say that he was glad Yu Heero was safe.

He had clung to Yu Heero merely as bait to prolong his own life, yet at some point, the life newly given to him became something that could no longer be explained without Yu Heero.

No matter how he tried to remember how it had come to this, there was no answer. So Seong Jiwoo chose simply to embrace reality.

It was no longer a burden to him.

Strangely enough, a life without Yu Heero now felt far heavier.

The long dream—or perhaps wandering thoughts—slowly cleared like mist, and Seong Jiwoo opened his eyes.

His body felt light, his mind clear, as though he had awakened from deep hibernation.

“…Hyung?”

His last memory had been broad daylight, but now darkness had settled thickly around him. A low voice called out to him. Seong Jiwoo’s gaze traced the sound.

At the end of that line of sight was the very face he had seen in his dream.

“Yu Heero…?”

For a moment, Seong Jiwoo had to wonder whether he was still dreaming.

After all, Yu Heero—

“Y-you… you right now…”

“…Hyung.”

“How old are you?”

It was a ridiculous question. But more ridiculous than the question itself was the state of mind that led Seong Jiwoo to ask it.

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