“Ahahaha, haha—huff, ugh… Oh man, I laughed so hard my stomach hurts. What am I gonna do?”
“Han-seo. Was it really that funny?”
“Yeah. Seriously, it’s a masterpiece.”
Inside the private jet, with only the two of them on board, Lee Han-seo rolled around in his seat, unable to stop laughing. He’d been at it nonstop since they took off. Park Woo-jun, who was basically the one responsible for the whole outburst, gently patted Han-seo’s back, worried he might start choking and quietly urging him to breathe and calm down.
Eyes tearing up from laughing too hard, Han-seo finally wiped the corners of his eyes with a finger and set the tablet down. The screen still showed the photos taken just a few hours ago during their hastily arranged send-off and press conference in the airport lounge.
[PHOTO] Chief Choi Cheol-yong: “Just for today—I’m the star!”
<Today’s Pick!> That dazzling shine—check out that glorious forehead!
[Exclusive] Rep. Hong Tae-seong: “We can’t let the Chief leave all alone!”
Even though Han-seo and Woo-jun were flying off to who-knew-where with no set return date, they weren’t the ones dominating the online buzz. That honor went to the blinding foreheads of the Chief and a handful of lawmakers, stealing the spotlight entirely.
Two days ago, after deciding to join the U-Class Task Force, Lee Han-seo had stormed straight into the Chief’s office after dinner. Along with officially accepting the deployment, he’d come prepared with two specific demands.
First, instead of transferring his affiliation, he wanted to remain under the Republic of Korea Esper Affairs Center and be sent abroad as a long-term dispatch. Since he’d still be working, just in another country, both Korea and the UN stood to benefit. The request itself wasn’t unreasonable.
With the Chief’s consent, Han-seo recorded the entire conversation and even had the agreement written up and signed on the spot. The Chief, clearly thinking Han-seo was just being petty, played along with a placating tone, probably assuming this was just his way of venting.
If he’d realized Han-seo’s true motive, there’s no way he would’ve agreed so easily. But that was the trick—you had to hit hard before the other side had time to think.
The moment Han-seo made up his mind, his thoughts turned razor-sharp. As he marched toward the Chief’s office, he’d resolved to squeeze out every ounce of advantage he could. That’s when a certain memory surfaced.
A few years back, it had come to light that Lee Jung-hyuk, who’d been working as a B-Class Guide due to a misclassified induction rating, was actually A-Class. He received his back pay in Contribution Points and retired early.
For Espers, Guiding was a matter of survival, so they willingly put the leash around their own necks and became the government’s loyal dogs. But for Guides, things were different. Even with higher pay and better perks than most public servants, forcing mandatory service like this was pushing it. Contribution Points were a workaround—a way to let Guides build up performance scores and apply for early retirement before reaching the official age.
Early retirement.
Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? It was like a giant lightbulb had gone off in his head.
If he stayed under Korea’s jurisdiction but worked overseas—especially in U-Class Dungeons—he could rack up points way faster than he ever could at home. Not that he absolutely had to rack them up, either. Because there was another rule, a long-forgotten clause that everyone had overlooked.
“According to Article 3 of the Special Act on Espers and Article 2 of the Center Support Ordinance: Overseas dispatch experience (excluding simple security or escort duties, and requiring actual dungeon entry comparable to domestic operations) will be recognized at 1.5 times the deployment period and factored into seniority calculations.”
Most Guides were never sent overseas, and even Espers who were usually did nothing more than embassy security or attend international events. So even though the clause technically existed, it was all but forgotten.
But Han-seo shifted his thinking—seniority wasn’t the real issue here. He and Woo-jun already had more money than they’d ever need. What mattered was that one line: “recognized at 1.5 times the deployment period.”
Esper mandatory service was calculated from the age of awakening until the standard retirement age of 60. So if someone awakened at 59, they’d only have to serve a year.
Park Woo-jun, who awakened at 19 and joined the Center right after, was facing a staggering 41-year service term. Even after years of dedicated work, he still had over 30 years left. But if he stayed on overseas dispatch…
They could cut more than a decade off. If working abroad meant they could both walk away ten years earlier, then yeah—it was worth gritting their teeth and enduring it.
And even if the Center tried to argue that the clause only applied to seniority and not actual service time, Han-seo wasn’t worried. His father was a top-tier lawyer, famous for his unbeatable track record.
The clause had been recommended by the International Esper Alliance to all national centers, but because no one actually used it, it had basically fallen out of circulation. That’s why the Chief never suspected a thing and just scoffed dismissively, thinking Han-seo was being childish.
All those years ago, when he and his father dug through every obscure clause to help Lee Jung-hyuk retire, it had seemed like a hassle. But now, it was paying off. If he hadn’t helped back then, Han-seo might’ve transferred to the UN side without knowing a thing and lost all his accumulated credits.
As for his second request—compared to the first, it was almost cute. Han-seo asked the Chief to gather some high-ranking officials, including himself, for a small farewell ceremony on the day of their departure. He didn’t care about the format or scale, but made it very clear that any lawmakers or reporters already in the loop had to be there.
The Chief agreed again with a light nod. How noble of this little brat in his mid-twenties, trying to save face. If throwing him a bone helps him vent, so be it, he must’ve thought, wearing a patient, almost fond smile.
Unlike the first demand, the second one really was just an emotional outlet. So Han-seo let it go and didn’t push any further.
And then, finally—departure day arrived.
Spotting the wall of reporters crowding the lounge, Lee Han-seo smiled, clearly pleased, and offered a casual farewell. “Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll see you all eventually.” Then he nudged Park Woo-jun lightly in the ribs. That was the cue.
The airport lounge was completely sealed from the outside—no wind, no breeze. But the moment Woo-jun flicked his fingers, a gust began to stir, weaving its way between the people packed into the space. The reporters, thinking it was part of a final show, lit up with excitement, snapping photo after photo as Woo-jun demonstrated his precise wind control.
Then, all at once, the breeze gathered into a focused surge—and blasted straight toward the ministers, high-ranking lawmakers, and other VIP guests, all of whom were sitting prim and proper in their seats, wearing the most solemn expressions they could muster.
“Wh-What the hell is going on?!”
“Stop this! Right now!”
“Hey! Stop filming! I said stop filming, damn it!!”
Wigs—crafted to look perfectly natural—flew off in every direction like leaves in the wind. Even those without wigs weren’t safe. Most were old enough that their bare, shiny foreheads reflected the lights like polished mirrors. They spun around in panic, trying to hide their heads, but it only made the scene more pitiful.
It was a farewell performance for the ages—broadcast in crystal-clear 4K by every major network, livestreamed across the internet, and lit up in more ways than one.
***
“Han-seo! Han-seo!”
By now, it wasn’t even surprising.
The moment they arrived at headquarters in Berlin, the first person to come running—just as expected—was Julian Moore. The last time Han-seo saw him, Julian had looked slightly better, likely thanks to the burst of high-purity Guiding he’d received. But this time was a different story.
He was dragging his leg, hands trembling, and his expression—though joyful—was a complete mismatch for the rest of him: bloodshot eyes, chapped lips, and a face that screamed barely holding on.
“What took you so long? I’ve been waiting ever since I heard you were coming.”
His Korean had improved quite a bit since the last time—not bad, honestly. And he looked pathetic enough to stir sympathy from just about anyone.
But sadly for Julian, the person he was trying to win over was Lee Han-seo.
And Han-seo only had one goal: early retirement for himself and his Bonded Pair.
Still wearing sunglasses, Han-seo watched Julian limp toward him in silence. Only when the distance between them had narrowed to about three or four steps did he finally glance up at Park Woo-jun and speak, cool and firm.
“Woo-jun-ah, what are you waiting for? Get rid of that thing.”
