A room converted into a temporary hospital ward.
“His body’s not in a normal state.”
Director Shin spoke in an agitated tone as he looked down at Han-gyeom, who was lying on the bed like a corpse.
“His heart, lungs, liver, pancreas, kidneys, stomach… nearly all his organs were damaged, and yet he’s recovered so cleanly, so quickly. It’s honestly astounding. Even the torn muscles have regenerated.”
Then, with a puzzled expression as if something didn’t add up, he added,
“But wasn’t the caster of this ability said to be an Esper with the power of ‘immortality’? This is clearly a different ability altogether.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about it. He was a test subject from that research facility. Just like Cha Han-gyeom, it’s possible he developed abilities separate from his innate one.”
“That makes sense. After all, the goal of that place seemed to be multi-ability development.”
Normally, an Esper has a single, unique innate ability. But the Fourth Ability Analysis Research Facility had built its experiments on the hypothesis that multiple abilities could manifest under various forms of stimulation. As with other such facilities, the test subjects were always high-ranking, unregistered Espers under the age of ten—orphans without any known family.
Seo Won, who had been gazing down at Cha Han-gyeom—one of those very subjects—turned to Director Shin and asked,
“When an Esper who created the cloned organs dies, didn’t you say the organs turn to ash and disappear?”
“Yes, that’s the basic principle. But in Cha Han-gyeom’s case, it’s quite different from typical cloned organs.”
Unable to hide his excitement, Director Shin took Han-gyeom’s medical chart from a woman in a white coat standing beside him.
“In Cha Han-gyeom’s case, ESP-generated cells were grafted onto his already damaged organs, almost like adding a protective layer. So when the Esper who performed the procedure dies, the organs don’t disintegrate into ash. Instead, the grafted ESP cells detach, returning the organs to their previously damaged state.”
Director Shin glanced at Seo Won, who remained silent, carefully gauging his reaction.
Most of Han-gyeom’s organs had been horrifically damaged, and some of his muscles had even ruptured. If the one who grafted the cells onto his body was the same rampaging Esper who had reduced the research facility to rubble, then it meant that the Esper had taken these measures before dying in that explosion.
How pitiful.
As one of the high-ranking doctors within the Esper Association, Director Shin wrinkled his nose, recalling the chatty old man who had once shared fragmented stories of the Fourth Ability Analysis Research Facility.
He said this wretched state was voluntary? What a load of nonsense.
That old man was currently the chief investigator in charge of the Ability Analysis Research Facilities—considered a stain on the Association’s history. He had informed them that the heart left behind by the “Immortal” of the Fourth Facility had been preserved by the Association, and that its only existing guide had participated in the experiments voluntarily, listed in the records as a “willing subject.”
Thanks to that, Seo Won and the Association had been able to strike a secret deal and successfully transplant the heart. But that brief bit of information about the guide had to be false.
Who in their right mind would willingly join such experiments, even destroying their own organs like this? Starting at the age of ten, no less.
Well, considering that old man didn’t even know the rampaging Esper with the immortality ability had been Imprinted with someone, it’s no wonder his credibility was questionable.
Director Shin, who had become so emotional his nose stung, cleared his throat with a sharp ahem, trying to compose himself.
“However, Cha Han-gyeom had managed to bind the ESP, which should’ve scattered into ash, using his own GP. In short, he reinforced the ESP surrounding his organs with another layer of his GP, creating a double-layered barrier to hold it together.”
Director Shin recalled the moment Han-gyeom had coughed up blood, writhing in pain.
“As you know, both ESP and guiding are heavily influenced by the caster’s mental state. While it’s not an exact science, if he experiences a psychological shock or extreme exhaustion severe enough to destabilize the GP wrapping his organs, it can lead to a seizure—just like what happened this time.”
“So, the liquid he called ‘medicine,’ made from the ashes of his deceased Imprinter… he was inhaling it to stabilize his GP.”
At Seo Won’s observation, Director Shin nodded vigorously.
“Exactly. The resonance between Imprinters plays a huge role in mental stabilization. The moment the residual ESP in the ashes entered his body, it must have immediately triggered a physiological response.”
As if to confirm that, just moments ago, Han-gyeom had quickly regained stability once he collapsed into Seo Won’s arms.
After laying the unconscious Han-gyeom down, they had run a battery of pre-prepared tests. Surprisingly, for someone who had been vomiting up blood in clumps, his physical condition was astonishingly sound.
But that didn’t mean he had recovered his strength.
“Every time his organs and muscles collapse and regenerate, his stamina will be severely drained. Restoring even the tiniest muscles… it must’ve consumed a tremendous—no, an unimaginably vast—amount of GP.”
Using Han-gyeom’s stamina loss as an excuse, Director Shin subtly implied the obvious: that he needed rest.
Seo Won shot him a cold glare, but Shin, perhaps clinging to his duty as a physician, put on a falsely stern expression.
“This is the first time I’ve seen a guide manipulate such massive amounts of GP with such finesse… but a guide is still just a guide. He doesn’t have the physiology of an Esper.”
“Didn’t you just say he made a full recovery?”
“I meant some of his organs and muscles. Beyond that, he’s still a fragile guide, nothing more.”
“Hmm…”
Seo Won looked down at Han-gyeom with a displeased expression.
“Can he guide?”
“Pardon? He hasn’t even regained consciousness—how could he possibly guide…?”
Director Shin looked puzzled, but Seo Won motioned toward Han-gyeom’s right arm. On the back of his hand, where an IV needle was inserted, a black band was wrapped around his slender wrist.
Recognizing it instantly, the director shook his head firmly.
“No. He’s already running dangerously low on GP. Forcing him to part with any more would only slow down his recovery.”
“That’s irrelevant. I didn’t bring him into my home to pamper and care for him.”
The words were ruthlessly cold. So much so, they didn’t seem like something someone would say after holding the unconscious Han-gyeom in his arms like he’d never let anyone take him away.
“I’ve already confirmed that I can control his seizures with my ESP as his Imprinter. So all he needs is just enough guiding to keep him from dying, right?”
“…Director Seo…”
“I sought him out to stop my rampages in the first place, and that’s why I’m keeping him close.”
The chill radiating from Seo Won was colder than any midwinter wind, instantly silencing Director Shin.
“Cha Han-gyeom has to guide me for him to fully feel my ESP. That will become his new ‘medicine,’ won’t it?”
The most vital piece that could completely bind Cha Han-gyeom was in Seo Won’s hands—and he had no intention of letting it go unused.
A satisfied expression slowly spread across Seo Won’s face.
***
With a hazy mind, he took a single step forward. The pitch-black space around him shifted in an instant.
A sterile white operating room, crammed with every sort of medical device, and on the single-person surgical table in the center, lay Song Yeon-woo, reduced to little more than skin and bone, his limbs bound.
He looked up at Han-gyeom, who stood dazed in a lab uniform, and gave a faint, powerless smile.
“Han-gyeom.”
Only when his name was called did he snap back to awareness. Focus returned to Han-gyeom’s eyes, and in seconds, his face crumpled. Tears welled up rapidly and rolled down his pale cheeks.
Normally, Yeon-woo would’ve cracked a joke or hummed a tune to stop Han-gyeom from crying. But now, he didn’t have the strength. All he could manage was a pitiful attempt at a smile through his broken, ragged voice.
“I really like you, Han-gyeom… I love you.”
Words far too tender for a place like this. This wasn’t a space for sweet whispers—it was a chamber of agonized screams and unbearable suffering.
“But I… I’m so tired…”
He had never once shown weakness in front of Han-gyeom. But that day, he looked utterly worn down.
“Let me die.”
Finally, the words that should never have been spoken slipped from Yeon-woo’s dry lips. A wish that could never come true…
Except to one person.
To Cha Han-gyeom—the one who had guided him every day, held his hand with warmth—it was a wish he could grant.
Han-gyeom didn’t even try to contain his emotions. He burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
“No… I won’t.”
Looking at Han-gyeom’s tear-streaked, sorrowful face, Yeon-woo smiled bitterly.
“You promised you’d grant me one wish, remember?”
“If I knew it would be something like this, I never would’ve made that promise… I can’t do it.”
“Han-gyeom-ah… please… I’m begging you.”
Han-gyeom shook his head desperately. The countless cameras capturing their every move made him nervous, but he couldn’t bring himself to hide his emotions.
“I told you no. If you die… what am I supposed to do…?”
“It’s okay. I’ll make sure… at least you can escape…”
How could he make a promise like that? There was no way Han-gyeom could survive alone in the middle of that explosive storm Yeon-woo was about to unleash just to die.
And yet, Yeon-woo pleaded again, repeating his promise.
“Even in death… I’ll protect you… So please…”
The smile on Yeon-woo’s face gradually crumbled into anguish, and soon he was crying as sorrowfully as Han-gyeom. Then, with cracked lips trembling, he forced another smile.
“Kill me…”
