Chapter 9: The Boy Who Missed Mentoring

“Senior.”

Yoo Hee-ro called softly, his voice calm and even.
Sung Ji-woo turned his head slightly to look at him. The evening sun had grown long, painting the training hall in shades of amber. Outside, the sky was a deep, autumnal hue — like the maple leaves burning in the wind.

Yoo Hee-ro frowned faintly before speaking again.
The mood almost felt like a confession scene — but the words that came out of his mouth were entirely different.

“I don’t think I can make it to mentoring this Friday.”

“…Why not?”

“I have to go for a checkup. I tried to delay it, but… I couldn’t.”

At the mention of a checkup, the first thought that flashed through Sung Ji-woo’s mind was a single, dreadful image.

“Are you sick?”

“Not really sick… but it’s something like that.”

Yoo Hee-ro avoided his gaze awkwardly, clearly reluctant to explain. That alone made Ji-woo uneasy. He wasn’t the kind of kid who hesitated when asked something — and that hesitation said plenty.

“What do you mean ‘not sick, but similar’? Either you’re sick or you’re not.”

“Mm… yeah, I guess so.”

Yoo Hee-ro smiled weakly. If he’d just said he was sick, Ji-woo would’ve left it at that. But now, his mind ran wild — imagining all sorts of absurd possibilities.
An incurable illness.
A rare disease.
Or worse… a power rampage.

Sometimes, Awakened individuals lost control of their abilities. After such an incident, their power became unstable, requiring regular medical monitoring. Ji-woo had even suspected that might be why Yoo Hee-ro couldn’t use his ability — some aftereffect of an uncontrolled awakening. His worry doubled.

Sensing the heavy air, Yoo Hee-ro quickly changed the subject.

“So, um, I think you’ll have to write this week’s report, Senior. I’ll probably be back Monday afternoon, but the deadline’s Monday morning…”

He said it as if the only reason for bringing up the checkup was the report. The real issue — his health — was brushed aside like a passing comment.

“Don’t apologize for that. Just take care of yourself.”

Even now, he was worried about paperwork. Ji-woo couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scold him. Who was supposed to worry about who here?

They’d been required to submit weekly mentoring reports every Monday. Yoo Hee-ro usually handled them. It wasn’t a big deal, but seeing him apologize so sincerely almost made Ji-woo sigh. How could someone be this conscientious?

“Thank you.”

“Forget it. Just… what kind of checkup takes that long?”

Three days was a lot. What kind of test lasted that long? An endoscopy marathon?

“Ah… normally, it’s short. But once a year, there’s a longer one. They give me some medication and observe the reaction.”

Medication and observation? It sounded more like an experiment than a checkup.
Ji-woo couldn’t even guess what it was, so he simply nodded.

“Alright. Just… come back in one piece.”

*************************

As always, the weekend passed in a blink.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday — three whole days, and Ji-woo hadn’t written a single line of the report. Maybe it was because of all those years doing fieldwork — it felt like his brain had forgotten how to write altogether.

The whole weekend, he’d felt this uncomfortable weight inside him.
He couldn’t stand how uselessly slow his mind seemed.
But worse than that was the temptation to procrastinate.

And so he procrastinated — until there was no time left to procrastinate.

Finally, chewing on his pen in frustration, he managed to scrawl two miserable sentences:

“Mentoring was conducted on Monday and Wednesday. Friday’s session was canceled due to the mentee’s personal circumstances.”

He considered padding it out with something like the importance of mental focus in training when the homeroom teacher slammed the desk.

“Alright, everyone — fill these out and hand them to the class rep by next break!”

He blinked, confused — until he saw the header.
Career Aspiration Survey.

“Please write down your desired career after graduation.”

One thing after another. He hadn’t even finished one task before another landed on his desk. Ji-woo groaned. He should’ve written the report last night. Or maybe written bigger letters to fill the page.

Too late now.

As soon as the forms were handed out, the classroom erupted in chatter.

“Hey, what are you putting down?”

“What do you think? Hunter, obviously. You?”

“Hunter, duh.”

The word Hunter echoed everywhere — the dream job of every awakened student.
But not for Sung Ji-woo.

“Yeah, sure, future Hunters. The world’s in your hands.”

Murmuring that under his breath, Ji-woo quickly filled his form.

[Career Aspiration: Weapons Merchant]

The next thing he knew, he was called to the teacher’s office.

“A weapons merchant? Really?”

To the faculty, it must’ve felt like betrayal.
Their brightest potential Hunter now wanted to sell weapons instead of wielding them.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to be a Hunter at the start of the term?”

To the teacher, that conversation had happened just a few months ago.
But to Ji-woo, it had been four years ago.
Back when he thought being a Hunter was everything. Back when it looked cool.

“Did something happen? I heard you’re not talking to your friends anymore…”

“Friends?”

Ji-woo blinked, genuinely confused.
What friends? He didn’t remember having any.

The teacher tilted his head and began listing names.

“Hobin, Gun-woo, Han-seok, Joon-soo — you guys were always together. They said you suddenly got angry and stopped talking. Did something happen?”

Ji-woo didn’t even bother explaining.

“They’re just… useless.”

“…Useless?”

The teacher frowned, unsure what that meant. Ji-woo added plainly:

“Friendship. It’s useless.”

“Ah, I thought you meant they were useless.” He chuckled awkwardly. “Well, maybe something happened. It’s almost the end of the year, so just let it go.”

Then he sighed again, trying to sound casual.

“Still, you’ll run into them again if you become Hunters. Maybe even in the X-Gate.”

“Sir, I wrote that I’m not becoming a Hunter.”

Right — that was why he’d been called in the first place. The teacher blinked, momentarily thrown off, then sighed heavily. He’d hoped for better things from this student.

“Fine, fine. It’s only the first term. You’ve got time to think about it. How’s the mentoring going, by the way?”

He assumed this was just a passing whim — that by next semester, Ji-woo would change his mind again. Not because he truly believed it, but because he wanted to.

Ji-woo just nodded.

“It’s fine.”

Mentoring was far more interesting than reliving high school life again.
It was one of the few things different from his past life.
Watching Yoo Hee-ro felt oddly rewarding — like taking care of a big, loyal dog.

He’d follow Ji-woo around, saying “Senior, Senior,” and looking up with those bright, eager eyes. It was both exhausting and… kind of cute.

In his previous life, everyone around him had been annoying — always nitpicking:
“You can’t do that.”
“Supporters should adjust to the dealers.”
“Why are you using that skill there?”

But Yoo Hee-ro? He’d probably say “You’re right, Senior,” even if Ji-woo claimed the sun rose in the west. It was strangely satisfying.
And though no one knew it, Ji-woo also carried a quiet sense of duty — to protect this world, this version of Earth that hadn’t yet been destroyed.

Maybe not duty, exactly — more like stubbornness.
A leftover obsession to fix what had gone wrong before.
After all the suffering he’d endured, he wasn’t going to let this world fall apart too.

The teacher cleared his throat, pulling him back to the moment.

“I heard your mentee’s that second-year kid, Yoo Hee-ro?”

“Yes.”

The teacher knew both of them well — Ji-woo’s temper and Yoo Hee-ro’s reputation.
And that combination sounded like a recipe for disaster.

“You’re sure that’s going well? No violence, right? You know I can’t protect you if the disciplinary board gets involved.”

“Violence? What would I even hit him with? He’s tiny.”

The words didn’t sound like something Sung Ji-woo would say. The teacher stared at him suspiciously.

“You are Sung Ji-woo, right? Did someone with shapeshifting powers replace you?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I was. You’re… really different these days.”

Almost like a completely different person.
How could someone’s personality change so drastically in just a few weeks?

“Anyway, you don’t have to worry. He’s learning fast — both in ability and attitude.”

“Attitude… training?”

That sounded even more dangerous. The teacher imagined Ji-woo teaching Yoo Hee-ro how to insult people creatively, or how to humiliate enemies using power alone.

Ji-woo just smiled.

“He’s a good kid. If you talk to him nicely, he listens.”

“…Right.”

“Sometimes, he even understands without words. Smart kid.”

Now he really did sound like a proud parent. The teacher had no idea how to respond.

“Alright. I trust you’ll handle it well. And if anything gets difficult, let me know. We’ll continue your career talk next time.”

The teacher said the usual formalities, silently praying Ji-woo wouldn’t actually take him up on that.

“Yes, sir.”

Ji-woo stood up. His back ached from sitting too long.
The real problem, though, was that he’d completely missed his mentoring session.
He hadn’t even told Yoo Hee-ro he’d be late.

The last time they’d met was Wednesday.
Now, he wouldn’t see him until next Wednesday — a full week apart.

He thought about rushing to the training hall, but the break period was already over.
No point now.

“I’ll just apologize when I see him Wednesday.”

With that thought, Ji-woo turned toward the classroom — just as someone shouted from down the hall.

“Sung Ji-woo!”