#75
Seo Yi-young hesitantly reached out and gently touched his hair. Since Choi Do-jun didn’t brush his hand away, Seo Yi-young thought this much was allowed. He carefully stroked Choi Do-jun’s hair. He wasn’t sure what to say.
What if he were in Choi Do-jun’s position?
What if he hadn’t been able to revive Joo-in in the dungeon?
Nothing anyone said would have reached his ears. There are times like that. When it feels like you’ve fallen into a pit you can’t escape from. Even if you want to get out, the depth keeps increasing little by little. What’s needed then is time.
People around can stay beside you until you climb out of the pit with your own strength. But that’s only a physical proximity. In the end, you have to get up entirely on your own. There’s no other way.
People cannot save others. It’s impossible. The idea that you can save someone else, change them—that’s just a delusion. People barely manage to navigate their own lives. If you think you can save others, that’s nothing but arrogance.
Seo Yi-young wasn’t in a position to tell Choi Do-jun that everything was okay. Nor could he tell him not to feel responsible.
But.
Seo Yi-young looked down at Choi Do-jun’s head.
Though he couldn’t see what expression he was making, somehow he felt he knew. He lightly stroked the round back of his head. Soft hair flowed between his fingers.
After stroking a few times like this.
“The boss mob’s ability was hallucination.”
His voice was barely audible.
“My parents were there.”
Choi Do-jun’s parents are no longer in this world. Both passed away when dungeons first appeared in the world. Knowing this, Seo Yi-young’s hand stopped abruptly.
Choi Do-jun’s voice was so small it could have been mistaken for a sigh. He moved his clasped hands that had been supporting his forehead and covered his face.
“Even though I knew it was a hallucination, I wanted to stay there.”
It was like a confession of sin.
Looking at Choi Do-jun, Seo Yi-young unconsciously closed his eyes. Would it be too arrogant to say he understood how Choi Do-jun must have felt at that time? But even if Seo Yi-young had been in Choi Do-jun’s position, it wouldn’t have been easy to break free from that place.
What thoughts had gone through Choi Do-jun’s mind in this room? Seo Yi-young looked around. What had Choi Do-jun been thinking alone in this spacious, large room with almost no furniture during all that time?
“I shouldn’t have. I should have broken free and come out immediately.”
At Choi Do-jun’s muttered words, Seo Yi-young clenched his teeth.
He didn’t need to ask how Choi Do-jun had broken free; he could guess. He would have had to dispel the hallucination. He faced a situation where he had to point a knife at the people he loved most, missed most, and longed for most. At such a moment, anyone would have hesitated.
How much had Choi Do-jun hesitated?
A few seconds at shortest. A few minutes at longest. If he had taken any longer, there would have been more casualties than now. The damage would have been greater too. Choi Do-jun had made the decision and acted in the fastest time he could. He had imprisoned himself within a harsh wall. What kind of time had he endured to reach this point?
Hunters aren’t machines. Their memories don’t reset when they leave dungeons; they accumulate layer upon layer. To reproach Choi Do-jun for not acting faster would be like demanding a human to be inhuman.
He could have ignored others pointing fingers at him. Of course, it would have been quite—no, extremely—painful, but trying to ignore it is human instinct. Even distorted self-rationalization is a function of the human ego to protect oneself. But Choi Do-jun seemed to have had that instinct neutered, forcing himself to adhere to an excessively strict standard.
Of course, at first, the bereaved families directed their anger at Choi Do-jun. Shocked by the death of their loved ones, they probably couldn’t think straight, and no comfort would have reached them. What parent could remain composed in the face of their child’s death? People in their weakened state tend to find someone to blame. Initially, that direction was simply aimed at Choi Do-jun.
In their eyes, it happened because Choi Do-jun failed to do his job. And Choi Do-jun is calmly accepting this fact. That’s why he’s suffering so much. Because he believes it happened due to his failure to do what he should have done.
Still, he’d heard that by the day of the funeral, the more composed bereaved families had held his hand, patted him, and even offered words of comfort to Choi Do-jun. Did he not remember that?
Had it always been like this?
It was a side he didn’t expect to see, making it even more surprising. Seo Yi-young, used to Choi Do-jun’s irritatingly confident demeanor, didn’t know what to say.
Should he tell Choi Do-jun that he did as much as he could?
It wasn’t an easy judgment to make.
He just didn’t want to leave him blaming himself anymore. It wasn’t a situation where he could speak easily. But one thing was certain: the mobs killed the hunters, not Choi Do-jun.
Hunters enter dungeons accepting the risk of being attacked by mobs. But it’s also true that Choi Do-jun reduces that risk. That’s not wrong. That’s why S-Class Hunters receive the treatment they do. Because they shoulder such risks.
What Choi Do-jun carries is the responsibility for the deaths of past hunters, the current existing dangers, and everything that will happen in dungeons in the future. He’s not denying it because he dislikes it. He can’t say he only wants to do the good parts.
Must Choi Do-jun endure carrying this alone?
Because he’s done so until now, will he continue to do so in the future, into the distant future?
Isn’t that too harsh?
Seo Yi-young might be thinking too one-sidedly. That’s certainly true. He doesn’t intend to deny it.
Seo Yi-young embraced Choi Do-jun’s head. He couldn’t speak pretentiously to him. Hadn’t Seo Yi-young also wanted to escape reality? That’s how he ended up in this dimension. He couldn’t pretentiously lecture with such a background. Nor did he want to.
He just wanted him to know. That he wasn’t alone. It’s a cliché, but he wanted Choi Do-jun to know that fact.
It’s not that he wanted Choi Do-jun to rely specifically on him. If not Seo Yi-young, if there was someone else, someone good, if he could lean on that person… that would be good.
The relief that comes from knowing someone is there cannot be replaced by anything else.
Seo Yi-young fiddled with the ends of Choi Do-jun’s hair with his fingers. At first, Choi Do-jun had resisted with force, but as time passed, Seo Yi-young felt the weight of him leaning into him.
Perhaps all this time, he’d wanted to lean on someone like this. Not in this physical way, of course.
Being alone is lonely. Life is too long and a bit too lonely to live alone.
“…Have you eaten?”
Choi Do-jun didn’t immediately answer Seo Yi-young’s question.
“You haven’t slept properly either, right? Let’s eat first, then get some sleep.”
“…”
Choi Do-jun showed no reaction, making Seo Yi-young wonder if he had even heard him properly.
“Sleep together.”
Seo Yi-young said while patting Choi Do-jun. He could feel Choi Do-jun’s back rising and falling slightly as he breathed.
“I don’t feel like eating.”
“You probably went without eating in the dungeon too. Come on. You’ll ruin your health that way.”
Seo Yi-young stubbornly pulled on Choi Do-jun’s hand. But Choi Do-jun wouldn’t budge. He probably thought he could get by with potions. But the human body isn’t a machine. It doesn’t run smoothly just because you oil it. Proper rest is necessary. Even machines develop problems when used for too long, let alone humans.
He wouldn’t move without good reason. After watching the stubborn Choi Do-jun, Seo Yi-young spoke.
“Are you planning to enter the dungeon in that state?”
Choi Do-jun’s body noticeably trembled.
“Get up, quickly.”
He didn’t want to say such things. But there was no other way to make Choi Do-jun eat and sleep properly. At Seo Yi-young’s words, Choi Do-jun rose. It was what he intended, for Choi Do-jun to listen, but he couldn’t understand why he felt this way. Seo Yi-young led him to the kitchen while holding his hand.
A two-person dining table that didn’t match the spacious area greeted them. The excessive empty space made it look desolate. After seating Choi Do-jun in one of the two mismatched chairs, Seo Yi-young opened the refrigerator. He thought it would be nearly empty, but that wasn’t quite the case. There were enough ingredients to cook something.
He could guess that Choi Do-jun used to cook for himself at home, which was also unexpected. There was no sign of life anywhere in the house, so confirming it this way felt a bit strange. Seo Yi-young took out the ingredients he saw. While he wasn’t a great cook, he could manage a decent meal.
When he glanced at Choi Do-jun, he found him looking back. But it wasn’t a conscious gaze; it was more like he was just keeping Seo Yi-young in his line of sight with a vacant expression.
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
