“Han-seo!”
Park Woo-jun didn’t even have time to scream before it happened. The monster lunged like a flash of lightning, its gelatinous body coiling up from below and engulfing Lee Han-seo in an instant.
At that exact moment, the guiding flow between them was severed—snapped like a frayed cord.
The immense pressure that had been pinning the monsters down began to crumble.
With the dam broken, the beasts surged forward like a roaring flood.
In the blink of an eye, the dungeon was thrown into chaos.
The Espers from the second unit, who’d been positioned near Han-seo, instinctively pulled their Guides behind them and staggered back.
They weren’t the main combat team, so their reaction was understandable—but the situation was far too dire to afford anyone that luxury.
Leaving the panicked combat personnel behind, Woo-jun bolted straight toward Han-seo.
“Grrk—ugh… Keh-hehk…!”
Han-seo’s small body thrashed violently, caught in the beast’s crushing grip.
Seeing him struggle, Woo-jun felt like he might pass out himself—even though he wasn’t the one under attack. That’s how sickening it was to watch.
But instead of collapsing, he clung to reason with everything he had.
The monster was practically fused to Han-seo’s body. One misstep—just a single slip in control—and he could end up harming Han-seo himself.
“Shit… Where the hell are these damn things even coming from?”
“T-Team Leader! The formation’s collapsing!”
“Aaaah! Please—please help me!”
The only reason they’d lasted this long was because of Park Woo-jun’s strength. Without that anchor, the entire frontline shattered like a seawall battered by a tsunami.
Even veteran combat Espers—who knew better than to shout in a dungeon and risk drawing more enemies—were now screaming, calling for Woo-jun, begging for help.
Among the voices were people he’d faced death with more times than he could count—subordinates who’d built bonds with him through blood and survival.
But Woo-jun didn’t hesitate.
He shut out every voice, every cry.
Even if the weight of all humanity were piled on one side of a scale—if Lee Han-seo sat on the other, Park Woo-jun’s choice would never waver.
He was reckless enough to sacrifice the many for the one—but not foolish enough to be unaware of it.
The massive power he’d used to crush dozens of monsters was now compressed into a blade-thin focus, making the very air around him hum under the strain.
The monster didn’t even have time to realize it had made a fatal mistake.
Though invisible, Woo-jun’s attack was razor-sharp—more than enough to carve through the creature wrapped around Han-seo.
To kill this type of monster, you had to destroy the core hidden somewhere inside its body. Anything less, and it would regenerate in seconds.
Woo-jun slashed again and again, cutting deep before it could even begin to heal.
If it were just one of them, taking it down would’ve been easy.
But there were too many to count. And while fighting them off, he also had to protect nearly thirty people.
He’d only ended up with the title of Team Leader out of necessity. He’d never had the talent—or desire—to lead anyone. Somewhere in his subconscious, he already knew that.
Even if every other teammate died and he walked out of this place with only Han-seo in his arms… he wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt.
The only reason he had to protect the others—was because if something like that actually happened, Han-seo wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Raised in the institution since childhood, Han-seo carried a quiet sense of responsibility so deeply ingrained he didn’t even realize it was there.
If the others died because of him, he’d carry that guilt to his grave. That was the only reason Woo-jun had to protect the rest.
He didn’t know how many more times he cut into the thing before he finally heard it—a faint crack, just barely audible.
It had taken longer than usual—he’d been too careful, trying not to let a single blade graze Han-seo.
Once the monster’s core shattered, it collapsed soundlessly into a pile of ordinary mud.
“Baby! Are you okay? Are you hurt? God, that scared you, didn’t it?”
“Cough, cough.”
Woo-jun caught Han-seo’s falling body and cradled him in his arms, but Han-seo was still coughing too hard to answer.
Woo-jun unzipped his combat suit and checked beneath his collar.
Just as he feared—bright red marks were wrapped around Han-seo’s neck.
Give it a few more minutes and it’d definitely bruise.
Should he put ointment on it? Or maybe get a Recovery Ampoule? What should he do? It looked so painful.
As Woo-jun panicked, eyes brimming with worry, Han-seo steadied his breath and immediately scanned their surroundings.
Things had only gotten worse.
While Woo-jun had been “taking his time”—though from his perspective, nothing was more urgent than Han-seo’s condition—the situation had quietly spiraled into disaster.
The slime-type monsters that had slipped past the 1st Team’s control range were now singling out Guides from the 2nd and 3rd teams.
And to make matters worse, the terrified screams of their group had likely drawn even more attention.
The heavy thudding of footsteps—accompanied by ominous tremors—was growing louder.
Something wasn’t right.
Monsters in lower-tier dungeons were physically stronger than most Espers, yes—but humanity had always managed to hold the upper hand because of one simple truth: Monsters had no intelligence.
That was what allowed the Centers to maintain control.
But now? These monsters couldn’t even sense guiding waves. Yet they were targeting Guides—selectively. As if they knew that shaking a Guide would weaken the Esper’s attack.
It must’ve targeted Lee Han-seo first because it saw Park Woo-jun as the biggest threat. That made sense—sort of. But the fact that it could decide that? That it could judge who was most dangerous? That was the part that didn’t add up. Everything humanity knew about monsters said that kind of thinking just wasn’t possible.
“Let’s get some medicine on that first. Where’s your bag, Han-seo?”
“Team Leader Park, are you seriously out of your damn mind? You think now’s the time to be playing medic?”
“Huh…?”
Apparently oblivious to the chaos around them, Woo-jun tilted his head like this was all perfectly normal, busy rummaging around for a first-aid kit.
Han-seo’s eye twitched in pure exasperation.
He grabbed Woo-jun by the shoulders, spun him around, and shoved him hard.
“Ah—wait, baby! Just one sec! Let me at least put some cream on—!”
“Cut the nonsense and go handle that. You don’t feel those tremors? We’re pulling in more monsters by the second. You want the whole team to die?”
“I know that! But even if they die, it’s not like I’m the one killing them, rig—ah. Yeah. Okay. Sorry. I’ll clean it up. Right away.”
Great. There I go again, talking bullshit.
Woo-jun nodded hastily, eyes wide with guilt.
Han-seo, without missing a beat, reached behind Woo-jun and pulled down the collar of his combat suit.
Rising up on his toes, he pressed his lips firmly to the exposed skin at the back of Woo-jun’s neck. A rush of guiding energy immediately surged between their skin—warm, steady, grounding.
With Han-seo secured behind him, Woo-jun’s mood lifted almost comically fast.
A smile broke across his face, and he returned to the fight, cutting down monsters with precision and ease.
Because of their strange, semi-liquid form, the creatures had wormed their way between people like glue. He couldn’t just unleash brute force—they were too close to his team.
“Hey. Pick up the pace, will you? That sound’s getting way too close.”
“I am going fast, baby! I could go faster, sure—but then everyone else would end up splattered like fruit in a blender…”
Han-seo didn’t respond. He just reached forward and started patting down Woo-jun’s chest.
“Huh?! Han-seo… right now? Here? Not that I’m complaining—I mean, really, I’m not—but… seriously?”
Even in the middle of a fight, Woo-jun’s brain short-circuited with completely inappropriate thoughts. Han-seo, as usual, ignored him.
“It should be right here… There. Found it.”
His fingers, swift and practiced, unlocked the complex mechanism with barely a glance.
From deep inside Woo-jun’s inner pocket, he pulled out two rough, ring-shaped devices—amplifiers, specially designed just for Woo-jun.
He’d packed them in secret, just in case.
He reached into Woo-jun’s combat jacket with zero hesitation, like he’d done it a hundred times before.
“H-Han-seo…”
“Want to put them on, or should I?”
“If I don’t wear them…”
“We’re screwed.”
“…Yeah. You’re right. Now’s not the time to argue.”
He’d worn these amplifiers countless times before. But today, they felt heavier than ever.
Because if he put them on again… If the same thing happened again… If he blacked out again—if he lost control and couldn’t recognize Han-seo—if he hurt him again—He didn’t think he could forgive himself. And he already didn’t like himself very much to begin with.
Han-seo, who knew every inch of Park Woo-jun better than anyone else, understood exactly what was going through his mind.
With a soft smile, he slid the rings onto Woo-jun’s index fingers.
“It’s okay. At least today, there’s no Blackout overlap, right? This time might be different. We said we’d focus on the good stuff, remember?”
That gentle optimism—light and teasing—made something inside Woo-jun loosen.
He nodded.
Then he squeezed Han-seo’s hand—still brushing against his own fingers—and didn’t let go.
And then it hit. Guiding waves surged from his arms, blazing to life like fire.
