Without any research or preparation—driven only by the vague goal of “capturing Jae-ha”—Im Su-min had thrown himself into university life. But he had a fatal flaw: a glaring lack of even the most basic knowledge.
He didn’t just lack report-writing skills; he honestly thought the school website existed only to check attendance. —Well, at least knowing that much was something, Jae-ha supposed.— Naturally, he had no idea that assignments were announced and submitted online, or that the library even offered reference books for papers. In fact, he hadn’t even realized such things as “reference books for reports” existed.
Any other freshman would’ve been taught these things by their seniors back in March. But Su-min, who had suddenly slipped in mid-semester through a secret transfer, never had the chance. Jae-ha frowned at him.
“You said you were at the library that night I ran into you?”
“That was… because I sensed yung’s energy there.”
Ah, right. That’s what he’d said. Truly a creature who cared about nothing but his own purpose.
Of course, grades and diplomas didn’t matter to an Imoogi. But there was a big difference between not doing something and being unable to do it. After a pause, Jae-ha closed the Word document he’d been working on.
Instead, he opened a browser, quickly logged onto the school website, then pushed the keyboard toward Su-min.
“Here. Log in.”
And just like that, the lesson shifted from “Basics of Word Processing” to “Basics of University Life.”
By the time Jae-ha had managed to patch some of the gaping holes in Su-min’s knowledge, darkness had already fallen. Even accounting for the shorter days of late autumn, it was getting late. He glanced at the clock and stretched.
“Should we eat? What do you want for dinner?”
He was planning to order delivery, of course.
“Ramen.”
That wasn’t the answer Jae-ha had expected. He thought Su-min would want something like a hearty Korean meal. Well, ramen was technically Korean, but still. Something more like rice. Entertaining that odd prejudice, Jae-ha asked with a hint of doubt,
“Just ramen?”
“Yes. The spicier, the better.”
At least ramen was something he definitely had. Jae-ha pulled three packs from the cupboard, and before long, the sharp aroma of spice filled the kitchen.
“You eat well,” Jae-ha said, watching Su-min chew the noodles silently, not even slurping. This particular ramen—the spiciest in his stash—was one Hae-hyun had once described as “a new form of self-inflicted torture” after just a single bite.
Like any Korean, Hae-hyun enjoyed a bit of heat, but Jae-ha was the type to always order the spiciest option on the menu. Still, since they usually shared a pot, he couldn’t subject Hae-hyun to torture alone. He’d been settling for moderately spicy for quite a while.
“It’s good.”
Su-min’s calm face made it clear he meant it. Finding a fellow spice-lover after such a long time, Jae-ha’s eyes lit up. A mental list of restaurants he’d been avoiding—for fear of dooming his companions to endless bathroom trips—flashed through his mind.
They must have both been hungrier than they realized, because the pot was emptied quickly. Just as Jae-ha was savoring the rare dopamine rush, Su-min suddenly spoke up.
“Hyung, give me your hand for a moment.”
“Huh?”
Puzzled, Jae-ha extended his arm. Su-min clasped it in both of his.
A rush of wind stirred the room, and a cool sensation surged through their skin—something Jae-ha remembered feeling once before. Su-min’s energy swept through his body like a cleansing tide before being drawn back through their joined hands. It was like stepping out of a refreshing shower.
…Did I just feel refreshed? What the hell was that? While Jae-ha blinked in confusion, Su-min let go.
“I completely drew out my energy from you. Some residue had been left behind and was starting to degrade….”
The quiet mutter that followed—about “that guy” not doing his job properly—was almost inaudible.
Jae-ha checked himself over. Outwardly, nothing had changed. But then again, he hadn’t felt anything when Su-min first said his energy was inside him either, so maybe not noticing was normal.
Still, this wasn’t the sort of thing Su-min would bother lying about. Jae-ha smiled faintly.
“Thanks. But next time, if you want to do something like that, ask me first.”
Su-min dropped his gaze. After a moment of silence, he suddenly lifted his head, as though he’d made up his mind.
“So if I ask in advance, it’s fine?”
“Mm… depends on what it is.”
Encouraged, Su-min’s voice grew steadier.
“I… want to stay with you whenever I can.”
“…Huh?”
It didn’t sound like he just meant being nearby. Jae-ha raised a brow. Su-min quickly added,
“Just being around you helps me gather energy. But the best is direct contact. The more I stay close, the better it is.”
“So… you’re saying you want to hold my hand?”
“No. If possible, hugging is even better.”
“……”
In all his life, Jae-ha had never heard such a request. He clarified flatly,
“So you’re saying you want to hug me whenever you get the chance?”
“…Would that be a problem?”
He’s serious. The realization struck sharply.
Well… it’s not like it would wear him down. Hugging whenever they met wasn’t particularly difficult either. Jae-ha studied him with a strange look. He could tell it wasn’t a ploy—well, maybe in some ways it was—but still, it was unexpected. The Su-min he knew usually let things slide without much attachment.
Then again, the reason he’d planted his energy in Jae-ha and tried to drag him into his nest must have been the same. That thought made Jae-ha curious about the “energy” Su-min seemed so obsessed with.
“This energy… is it really that important?”
Su-min nodded.
“If an Imoogi stores energy in its Yeouiju, the Yeouiju grows larger. Once it reaches a certain size, that’s when we can become dragons.”
His expression darkened.
“But I’m slow. Compared to other Imoogis, I’m weak. Whenever we compete, I usually lose. I can’t show my face before Lord Hwang-ryong.”
“But… they say it takes at least a thousand years to ascend, right? You’re only two hundred.”
Eight hundred years still lay ahead. And wasn’t Su-min chosen as a dragon’s successor? He didn’t need shortcuts. If he trained steadily, surely he would meet the requirements with room to spare.
“Lord Hwang-ryong says the same thing.”
Su-min muttered gloomily. Hwang-ryong, and the other Imoogis too. They all said the same: You’re still young. It’s natural. You’ll improve. Don’t worry. Take it easy.
But eight hundred years was far too long, and his energy gathered far too slowly.
Every night before bed, Su-min measured how much he had accumulated that day. The calculations always confirmed what others said. He knew. If he trained diligently for eight centuries, ascension was guaranteed.
But when would that endless wait end?
It felt like walking an eternal loop. Anxiety never left his side, seeping into his dreams and spinning restless nightmares until dawn.
At the very least, he wanted to reach the minimum requirements for ascension now—or even just catch up to the other Imoogis. That would finally ease his mind. Falling behind always brought tension and unease.
“I just… I wish my Yeouiju would grow faster.”
He was tired of comparisons, tired of calculations.
“I don’t want to be a burden to Lord Hwang-ryong”
He wanted to tell the dragon who had chosen him: Your decision wasn’t wrong. He wanted to be someone that dragon could take pride in.
It was the kind of thought only someone who felt small could have.
“I don’t think Lord Hwang-ryong would ever see you as a burden.”
“…I know.”
Su-min answered with a face that betrayed nothing. Jae-ha quietly studied this Imoogi—both young and strangely mature.
“Dragons must have their own criteria.”
Back at Myeongheoseong, he recalled, Hwang-ryong had said as much. Their encounter had been fleeting, but there had been no regret in his voice. If he had regretted choosing Su-min, then when Su-min tried to use Jae-ha by planting his energy, he would’ve been punished—forced to kneel for days before the palace gates.
And yet, Jae-ha could understand Su-min’s desperation. After all, wasn’t he the most fitting person to help Su-min in his current state? From Su-min’s perspective, wanting more was only natural.
But—
“I’m sorry, Su-min. I don’t think I can do that.”
