Chapter 59: The Only Thing on the 120th Floor

That was easier than eating a meal.

Yu Hiro remembered all too clearly how ability users in the past had looked down on him. So he deliberately acted the same way now, wanting to test what kind of reaction Sung Ji-woo—the former top-ranker—would show.

If he made a choice no different from those stupid hunters, then a meaningless future would simply repeat itself.

But Sung Ji-woo far exceeded his expectations.

The first day they ate together in the cafeteria, Sung Ji-woo said this to him while he was shrinking into himself.

“Did you do something wrong?”

“…I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know, then who would?”

“……”

“If you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, then sit up straight.”

Sung Ji-woo was a solid person.
He didn’t get swept along by others’ words or shaken by them. When Yu Hiro pretended to be miserable over not being able to use his ability, Sung Ji-woo wore a serious expression—as if it were his own problem—and calmly reassured him.

“…You’ll be able to use it soon. Don’t worry too much. What’s the big deal if you can’t use your ability for a while?”

Sung Ji-woo was also soft.
When it came to someone he cared about, he was defenseless.

On the day Yu Hiro set fire to the research building to break free from the shackles of his past, Sung Ji-woo believed him—without a single condition.

“What are you doing to a kid out of nowhere? What did he even do wrong?”

Truly…
Sung Ji-woo was a gentle person.

“I’m glad you’re with me.”

So gentle it was overwhelming.

“…I’m really glad I met you too, sunbae.”

Sometimes, that kindness startled him.

During summer vacation, when they had to be apart for a long time for the first time, it was quite painful. Still, there were things that needed to be done while Sung Ji-woo was gone.

Like loosening a body that had grown stiff.
Or removing future obstacles in advance.

If Sung Ji-woo hadn’t contacted him that day, things would have become far more exhausting.

For both of them.

[—What? Then it feels like you were just waiting for my call. That makes me feel bad.]

Just hearing Sung Ji-woo’s voice made him want to act spoiled like a child.
It was the first time he’d ever felt that way—and it was dangerous.

“Did you see?”

“You did great. Why even ask? You’ve been doing well the whole time.”

The real problem was that the feeling didn’t seem bad at all.
At least to Sung Ji-woo, Yu Hiro wanted to be a good person. His previous life had been… honestly, the worst.

If he had to make an excuse, it was because he hadn’t met Sung Ji-woo back then—he had been incomplete.

“Hyung… could you name it for me instead?”

“Me? Your name’s meaning? Isn’t that a bit much?”

“…It didn’t have one to begin with, so it’s fine. Just make something up.”

Sung Ji-woo was someone who made him look forward to tomorrow—something that had once been nothing but terrifying.

He was the person who finally put an end to those countless damp nights when Yu Hiro had closed his eyes hoping life would simply end.

“I’m not great with hanja, but… how about ‘Hee’ meaning ‘to shine’ (熙), and ‘Ro’ meaning ‘path’ (路)?”

He was the one who gave meaning to Yu Hiro’s life.

Yu Hiro slowly blinked as he came out of his memories.

He knew what the Association President was curious about, but he couldn’t tell him outright.

Still, there was one thing he could say for certain.

Lowering his voice, Yu Hiro spoke quietly.

“There aren’t any monsters on the 120th floor.”

Bang!

The enraged Association President slammed his thick palm onto the table. Yu Hiro calmly leaned back.

“…Do you think we’re idiots? There has never—not once—been a final dungeon without monsters. Speak clearly.”

Yu Hiro let out a small breath. His eyes darkened.

“There’s only one thing on the 120th floor.”

“……”

“Fear.”

The Association President stared at him in silence.

The day after Yu Hiro left, Sung Ji-woo hung a Close sign on his shop and headed to the Hunter Association.

The building he saw again after so long still radiated grandeur. They said it was the second tallest building in South Korea—every time he saw it, he thought they’d really gone all out.

When ability users and gates began popping up sporadically and the world plunged into chaos, Hunter Associations had sprung up everywhere, training hunters professionally.

In truth, they had been hollow at first—but tall, sturdy buildings made them look like legitimate organizations.

Decades later, they had become as solid as their buildings.

Which was another way of saying they were utterly inflexible.

“Hello. May I ask your name and the purpose of your visit?”

The receptionist smiled politely at Sung Ji-woo.

“I’m here to read a letter Yu Hiro sent. My name is Sung Ji-woo.”

“Ah, I see. Please wait a moment.”

The receptionist, impressively professional, showed no sign of surprise or confusion as she typed away. Soon after, she asked again,

“May I see your ID?”

“Here.”

The absurdity of having to show his ID just to read a letter from his junior was almost laughable.

“Thank you. A guide is on their way. Please wait a moment.”

Five minutes later, a large man in a pitch-black suit came to find Sung Ji-woo.

He followed behind him slowly.

At last, he would learn what Yu Hiro had left behind for him.

“…This is all of it?”

Sung Ji-woo stared in disbelief at the box of documents placed in front of him. It was filled to the brim with Yu Hiro’s letters. About eighty percent of them were written on paper stamped with the Hunter Association’s official seal.

“These… don’t seem like they were meant for me.”

“They were addressed to you, Mr. Sung. Originally, they were meant to request replies from us, but he sent them to you instead.”

In the middle of exhaustion and chaos, how had Yu Hiro even thought to write him letters?

Sung Ji-woo could count the letters he himself had sent on one hand.

“…And during all the time these were piling up, no one contacted me even once.”

He hadn’t eaten anything, yet it felt like something heavy was sitting in his stomach.

He didn’t want to take it out on innocent employees—but then who was he supposed to hold responsible?

While Yu Hiro had been sending all these letters…

No—since the probability of letters being delivered outside the gate was only about seventy percent, he must have sent even more than this.

“…Y-yes, we apologize. According to protocol—”

“Protocol, huh… Right. Of course. Someone like Yu Hiro—back then or now—there’s only ever been one of him. When did you people get so good at making ‘protocols’?”

He knew he was lashing out at the wrong target.

Maybe this was really reproach aimed at himself—for being so careless, for not paying more attention.

Sung Ji-woo retraced Yu Hiro’s days in reverse.

He pulled out the letter at the very bottom. It looked like the reply Yu Hiro had written on the day Sung Ji-woo first sent supplies. It would have taken months to reach outside the gate.

[Hyung, I miss you.]

No greeting—straight to the point.
Very much Yu Hiro.

It felt like his voice was whispering right beside Sung Ji-woo’s ear.

[I was going to get mad and ask why you didn’t even say anything, but you didn’t even give me the chance. You know you’re really bad, right?]

It seemed the supplies had arrived around the time Yu Hiro realized Sung Ji-woo hadn’t entered the gate.

An unfortunate coincidence for Yu Hiro—and a fortunate one for Sung Ji-woo.

[I’m not struggling, but it’s a bit inconvenient. When do you think I’ll reach the 120th floor?]

The kid who had struggled even in a training gate with him—there was no way an X-Gate wouldn’t be hard.

Sometimes smiling, sometimes grimacing, Sung Ji-woo read through the letters without pause. Some were stained with dust, others with monster blood.

If it wasn’t Yu Hiro’s blood, that alone was a relief.

[If I reach the 120th floor, you’ll be happy, right? That’s not a bad achievement for a hunter, is it?]

As if that even needed to be asked.

Most of the letters were full of questions.

Hundreds of questions he had never answered lay scattered before him.

After reading just a few lines, it was obvious how desperately Yu Hiro wanted his approval.

Yu Hiro had always liked being praised.

Not in a spoiled, entitled way—but like a child who had finally gotten something he’d never once been given, and now longed for it day after day.

Like a child waiting from Christmas Eve, believing Santa would come with a present.

Except Yu Hiro wasn’t the type to behave only during Christmas week.

He was the kind of child who spent an entire year being good—for that single day.

Otherwise, he never would have foolishly trapped himself in an X-Gate for three whole years.

That was why it was overwhelming.

Sung Ji-woo had never done that much for anyone.

And no one had ever done that for him.

“Let’s talk more about the 120th floor later. Let’s move on for now.”

Because of the seriousness in Yu Hiro’s voice, the Association President didn’t press further—though his suspicious gaze remained.

Clearing his throat, he continued.

“Why did you enter alone? And before completing your service, at that. If you’d gone in with elite hunters, it would’ve been much easier—”

“I told you. I did it because hyung wanted me to.”

Yu Hiro cut him off flatly.

The President rubbed his forehead, groaning.

“…Haah. Do you really think that makes any sense? Who in the world enters an X-Gate for that reason alone? Fine, let’s say entering is one thing—but who decides to finish an X-Gate once they’re inside?! Do you think lives grow on trees? Most people die before they even pass the 40th floor!”

His voice rose higher and higher until he was practically shouting.

Yu Hiro replied calmly, as if none of it mattered.

“Guess I have multiple lives.”

“What?”

The President scowled.

Yu Hiro drove the nail in.

“So yeah. Maybe I’m blessed. Or maybe I’m cursed. Don’t you think?”

At Yu Hiro’s cryptic words, the President leaned heavily back in his chair. It tipped backward, then rocked forward again.

“Does it feel like a miracle that I came back alive? That I accomplished what you couldn’t do for decades—no, centuries? Does it feel like a lie?”

This time, Yu Hiro questioned him.

The President’s eyebrows twisted in displeasure.

“Judging by your lack of fear, you must’ve acted without thinking. You were lucky. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have even had bones left to collect.”

The Hunter Association had suffered over the X-Gate for a long time.

They should have been relieved that the burden was gone—but the interests tied to it over seventy years were far too deeply rooted.

They wanted Yu Hiro to succeed, yet also wanted him to fail.

They didn’t want to lose the glory they had invested so much into—nor did they want to shoulder all the risks themselves.

But Yu Hiro succeeded.

And they lost.

“So that’s what you were hoping for.”

“Join the Association. I’ll give you a good position.”

“So that’s the real point, then.”

Yu Hiro crossed his arms, as if he’d expected it.

By the time Sung Ji-woo finished reading without pause, the bottom of the box was finally visible.

Among the remaining letters, one sentence caught his eye.

The letter began with an ordinary greeting. The important part was somewhere in the middle.

[Did you know? I still haven’t used my wish ticket.]

“A wish ticket…?”

Tilting his head, Sung Ji-woo read on.

[I feel like you probably don’t remember, but… when my grades went up in my second year of high school, you said you’d grant me one wish.]

“Ah.”

Only then did a vague memory surface.

Yu Hiro had said he couldn’t use it yet, so they’d postponed it.

And after that, Sung Ji-woo had completely forgotten.

[I’m going to use it when I clear the X-Gate and get out.]

Had Yu Hiro ever told him what that wish was?

Sung Ji-woo’s mind raced.

Wait.

No way.

[I’ll say it in front of everyone, so you have to grant it. No backing out.]

I kept my promise.
So marry me.

Those were the only two lines Yu Hiro had said on the news.

The first sentence couldn’t have been the wish.

Which meant Yu Hiro’s wish was—

“Let’s just pretend I didn’t see this.”

Sung Ji-woo folded the letter quickly and quietly.