Chapter 74: Promises That Came Too Late

“It’ll be dangerous once it gets dark. Let’s pack up and head down. We can drink more once we’re back.”

With Park Soo-jin taking the lead, the drinking session wrapped up quickly. After neatly clearing away the offering table, they bowed silently toward the grave.

They hadn’t noticed on the way up, but trying to go down after sunset revealed just how rough the mountain path was.

The ground was hard to judge in the dark, and people kept misstepping. In the end, they made the executive decision to rely on the person beside them.

They paired up in twos, and since the group naturally split by guilds, Sung Ji-woo ended up paired with Yoo Hui-ro.

When Ji-woo slipped, Hui-ro grabbed him firmly.

“Be careful.”

“Y-yeah. It’s surprisingly slippery. You be careful too.”

“Yes.”

As the pairs descended at different speeds and some distance opened up between them, Yoo Hui-ro finally voiced the resentment he’d been holding in.

“If I’d known you were going to drink with everyone else up there, I wouldn’t have come. You didn’t say anything about that.”

Drinking makgeolli hadn’t been part of Ji-woo’s plan either. Still, it was true that he hadn’t given it much thought. Considering how much Hui-ro had been looking forward to this, it was his mistake.

“It’s my first time.”

“…Huh?”

“I’ve never drunk alcohol in my life. I wanted my first drink to be just the two of us… with you.”

There was resentment and quiet grievance in his eyes. Ji-woo was left speechless.

“Hey, that’s—”

He was about to say it wasn’t anything special, but instinctively knew he shouldn’t.

“…Then let’s have another drink when we get back to Seoul.”

“You’re going to drink again with everyone once we get down, right?”

“Well, since we already started…”

Ji-woo trailed off. It was too dark to clearly see Hui-ro’s expression.

“Then stay right next to me.”

“What? Why?”

“You kept talking to everyone else up there. You left me alone…”

“…Were you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

Thinking about it, the group itself probably hadn’t been comfortable for Hui-ro. A guild master he’d never met before, plus four high school seniors—it wasn’t exactly an easy mix.

“But you met them in X-Gate, didn’t you? Didn’t you get close then?”

“We were only together for a few months. And everyone was… too busy fighting…”

His voice trembled faintly, as if recalling that time. Ji-woo hurried to respond.

“Yeah. That makes sense. In there, it does. Making friends inside X-Gate would’ve been the crazier thing. I guess I forgot.”

Hui-ro looked at him silently.

“You talk like someone who’s actually been inside X-Gate.”

“Of course. You know how much hell I went through in there—! …No, I didn’t. Guess I didn’t.”

Ji-woo’s voice shook more and more. His chest tightened. Hui-ro said nothing, focused only on steadying Ji-woo as his weight grew heavier.

Ji-woo didn’t seem to realize it himself, but he was clearly getting drunk. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, he was stumbling badly, and Hui-ro finally hoisted him onto his back.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Hyung, you hurt your ankle.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

In truth, he hadn’t—but if left alone, he probably would. Ji-woo looked confused, then nodded as if that explained everything.

Seeing how docile he was compared to usual, Hui-ro let out a small chuckle.

“What’s going on? Why are you carrying him? Is Sung Ji-woo hurt?”

Lee Hye-rin, who’d gone ahead and was waiting, asked with wide eyes. Hui-ro shook his head.

“So he doesn’t get hurt.”

“What? He’s not hurt, you’re just carrying him so he won’t get hurt?”

Hye-rin asked again, thinking she’d misheard. Hui-ro nodded shamelessly. Hye-rin and Shin Yoon-jae clicked their tongues.

After Park Soo-jin and Gu Min-ah finished descending last, the six of them headed back to Gu Min-ah’s house.

The second round of drinking took place in a small open field behind Gu Min-ah’s house. Just as Sung Ji-woo felt like he was sobering up, he accepted a drink from Hye-rin—and promptly got drunk again.

After another couple of drinks, Hye-rin latched onto Gu Min-ah and started crying all over again. Shin Yoon-jae tried to stop her, but it was useless.

“We’re friends for life now, got it?!”

Gu Min-ah snorted at the near-shouted declaration.

“Fine.”

“What? Really?! We’re seriously friends for life?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god, that’s insane. Shin Yoon-jae, you heard that, right? You did, right?!”

“I heard. Calm down. Easy.”

Why was she making racehorse noises when she wasn’t even a racehorse? Park Soo-jin, who’d been drinking water nearby, snorted and spat it out. He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, citing the need to drive.

Part of it was also knowing that if these kids—who thought they were all grown up—did something stupid while drunk, he’d be the one cleaning up the mess.

He turned his head to look at Sung Ji-woo and Yoo Hui-ro. The two were sitting pressed close together, whispering like they were in a world of their own.

“…They’ve grown up.”

He never dreamed he’d encounter him like this again.

By rights, he shouldn’t even have shown his face to Yoo Hui-ro. That was why he’d created a gathering guild instead of a raid guild—to stay out of the spotlight.

Even now, he hadn’t managed to say a single word to him. Still, just being able to see him from afar stirred unfamiliar emotions.

Park Soo-jin had known from the moment an article broke about a hunter entering X-Gate under the name HERO. That child—Yoo Hui-ro—had become a hunter after all.

Choosing the name HERO had been deliberate. It was his way of announcing himself to them, of proving his existence.

Some might have looked at the hunter he’d become and celebrated the experiment as a success. But seeing him, Soo-jin instinctively knew the experiment had failed—utterly. Everything Hui-ro had achieved was unrelated to it.

They had contributed nothing. Instead, they’d left him with scars that could never be erased. Overcoming all of that and rising as a hero had been entirely Hui-ro’s own doing.

From the moment he met Hui-ro again in Dohwari, Soo-jin had pretended not to recognize him. Partly because he thought Hui-ro wouldn’t want to see him, and partly because he didn’t want to say anything reckless in front of people who knew nothing.

Even so, watching him for that brief time made one thing obvious—Hui-ro relied heavily on Sung Ji-woo. His gaze never once strayed far from him.

The fact that he’d even turned back from the final dungeon just to look for Ji-woo made it impossible to believe they were merely senior and junior.

Knowing that Hui-ro had someone he could lean on was undeniably a relief. Soo-jin had feared that after everything he’d endured, Hui-ro might never let anyone close again for the rest of his life.

Back then, Soo-jin had been foolish. He’d been completely taken in by talk of career advancement. No—since it had been his choice, there was no room for excuses.

A test subject is just a test subject.
That was the thesis drilled into researchers. The fundamental premise of the research itself.

Because of that, he hadn’t recognized the problem at all. The shock of it hit him only when Yoo Ji-eun broke down in tears one day, saying the experiment was unbearable—but that she couldn’t leave the lab either.

From then on, they’d endlessly discussed how to steer the experiment in an ethical direction, or how to shut it down cleanly, and how to handle Hui-ro’s future care.

The day Yoo Ji-eun died so senselessly, Park Soo-jin was abroad, attending an international research ethics forum.

I hope this becomes an opportunity to resolve things more smoothly with help from overseas, she’d said.

Before leaving, Soo-jin had shared all the materials he’d prepared with her.

I hope so too.

I added more research on the cases you told me about. I contacted the relevant organizations, but they said the details were classified. Still, I was able to summarize how they handled the aftermath.

Overseas, there had once been attempts to artificially cultivate ability users—though unlike Hui-ro, the subjects were already adults.

When mutants known as ability users first began appearing, such experiments had proliferated. They were eventually halted due to severe side effects, but two test subjects had died in the process.

Even now, ethical debates over those experiments were ongoing in their home countries, and authorities were doing their best to compensate the victims’ families.

Using those cases, it might have been possible to wrap up their own experiment cleanly. Hui-ro, who’d been artificially altered from birth, could never live a completely ordinary life—but at least it could have been far better than this.

…Are you really thinking of taking him in and raising him?

Yes. In a way, he’s my blood too. I couldn’t be his parent before, but still…

Up until then, they’d dreamed of a best-case ending where everything was neatly resolved. But the forum failed.

From the second day onward, Soo-jin was confined to his hotel room.

It was the doing of the Hunter Association’s research director, who’d attended with him. The man sneered, saying he’d been waiting to catch Soo-jin’s trail even before coming here.

He threatened Soo-jin with severe punishment upon his return to Korea and ordered him to stay locked in his hotel room until the forum ended.

When he even invoked Yoo Ji-eun’s name, Soo-jin could do nothing.

In the end, all Soo-jin gained from the forum were the contact details of a few researchers he’d met on the first day. Some of them even messaged him later, asking why he hadn’t come back—they’d enjoyed their discussion and wanted to continue.

But Soo-jin could only say he was unwell and had to stay in the hotel. The research director had confiscated all the materials he’d prepared. Even though Soo-jin still had the files, the real problem was that he’d already shown all his cards.

To make matters worse, Yoo Ji-eun died, and Soo-jin was forced into “voluntary” resignation.

He tried everything to get Hui-ro out, but every attempt failed. Hui-ro was transferred to a research wing inside a special ability-user school—completely out of Soo-jin’s reach.

To fulfill both his and Ji-eun’s goals, he needed money. And so he created the gathering guild, Knocker.

Even if everything he did was for Hui-ro’s sake, he couldn’t approach him freely. To Hui-ro, he had to remain a sinner.

The last time he saw Hui-ro was on Ji-eun’s death anniversary, the year Hui-ro entered high school. It, too, had been a one-sided meeting.

Hui-ro stood in front of the urn—empty, containing not even her remains—for a long time. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.

His eyes were hollow. Only a few years had passed since Ji-eun’s death, yet he looked as if he were recalling something from a distant past.

After letting out a final, hollow laugh, he left the columbarium expressionless. It felt less like a visit to mourn, and more like one to confirm something.

Only then did Park Soo-jin step out of hiding. Looking at Ji-eun’s brightly smiling photo placed by the urn, he set down the flowers he’d brought.

“Before I die… I’ll make sure this is resolved.”

It was a promise to her—and a vow to himself.